


To the Victor, by Consent of the Spoils

by Zaniida



Series: Open Chapterfics (MCU) [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (at least after the first chapter), Additional Warnings by Chapter, Alien Cultural Differences, Alternate Universe - Loki Wins, Bargaining, Collars, Dubious Consent, Dubiously Consensual Mind Control, Futile Struggle Against the Inevitable, M/M, More Swearing Than My Norm, More tags might be added, Not Terribly Dark, Past Mind Control, Sex Is Not the Focus Here, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2020-07-28 13:04:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20064502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaniida/pseuds/Zaniida
Summary: After eight long years, the war is drawing to a close.  Loki has won, and Tony's just about ready to stop fighting the inevitable.Note: Title might change.  I'm still waffling over it, but it's midnight and I'm posting this dang thing.





	1. Tony

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EndlessStairway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EndlessStairway/gifts).
  * Inspired by [to yield when the course is wrong](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12361815) by [alternatedoom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alternatedoom/pseuds/alternatedoom). 
  * Inspired by [I Shall Have What Is Mine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2474498) by [joinallthefandoms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joinallthefandoms/pseuds/joinallthefandoms). 
  * Inspired by [Spoils of War](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124782) by [Limmet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Limmet/pseuds/Limmet). 

> Sensitive readers, please check each chapter's End Notes for content warnings. The tags point out content that's in major focus, or across much of the fic, but there will also be various other disturbing content dealt with as it comes into play. I'll try to be careful with the chapter warnings.
> 
> For those who simply don't like dark and angsty stuff: That's just the first chapter, and it's not exactly what it seems. It's all from Tony's point of view, establishing what he's been through before the main plot gets underway. So consider reading it anyway. (Slightly more detail on this in the End Note.)
> 
> I have not had a chance to go over this chapter with my beta reader, but my beta reader is quite busy, as is my backup friend, and I decided to just post it anyway. I'm particularly concerned about getting a Voice Pass for Loki's wording/diction, especially near the end of the chapter, but that will just have to wait. If you have suggestions for better wording, by all means point them out!
> 
> Also, please note that I've seen the first _Iron Man_ film, but not yet seen the second or third. So, while I've gotten used to Tony in context of the group, I haven't really gotten used to him in context with his circle of friends, and I don't know Pepper all that well, or Rhodey. So my understanding of these particular characters is likely to change, possibly while writing this. If something seems particularly out of character, please discuss that in the comments; it might be deliberate for the concept of this fic, or it might be that I didn't realize the character would react a certain way or have history with a certain plot element. Thanks!

_Trapped within his powerless armor, effectively both deaf and blind, Tony squirms helplessly, the panic building inside him as he gasps for precious, dwindling air. Whatever Loki did, it’s frozen all the moving parts, turning his suit into one solid chunk of metal—inescapable_.

_He doesn’t want to die this way. He doesn’t want to die, period, but he especially doesn’t want to die because he can’t get out of his fucking suit. The suit he designed to let him escape his captors shouldn’t become his tomb_.

_The headache’s getting worse. It’s familiar, the feel of lungs going stale, of a body desperate for oxygen. Tears are streaming down his face, and he can’t even lift a hand to wipe them away_.

_A sudden scrunch, and his faceplate rips off, and Tony gasps in great sobbing breaths, squinting up at the light, at the shape blocking the light: Loki, smirking down at him_.

_“Well, Man of Iron,” the Asgardian menace purrs. “Are you prepared to admit your defeat at my hands? Or shall we keep this up for a while longer, just to be sure?”_

* * *

As far as Tony knows, everyone else could be dead. He could be literally the last superhero on earth.

He tries not to think about that, because it’s the kind of thing that’ll drive him to drink again, and if he picks up even one drink now, he’s never going to stop. Pepper’s not here to pull him out.

That’s something else he tries not to think about.

Eight long years he’s been fighting, as his allies fall in combat or even just disappear. Each new failure, back up and find a new plan. But his best efforts have amounted to nothing more than delaying the inevitable.

Even setting aside the ever-expanding army of alien cyborg things and their flying space whales—which, in and of itself, is hardly a trivial problem—how do you defeat a godlike being who’s impervious to bullets, who shrugs off explosions and blunt-force trauma and heals stab wounds overnight?

How do you defend against a guy who can craft illusions, change his own appearance within seconds, fuckin’ _shapeshift_ (with, honestly, _no_ respect for conservation of mass or the laws of physics in general), and selectively cloak himself from human sight and even most types of cameras?

The first few months had been a mad scramble to figure out which sensors couldn’t be fooled and to set them up in all the key locations. All the choke points have heat sensors now (Loki is markedly colder than the human baseline) and run the data to offsite locations—Loki’s illusions can’t change his heat signature, but if he can psychically locate the agents, he can make the readouts _themselves_ lie.

Spotting Loki’s human minions isn’t quite so easy, but Tony developed protocols to compare heat signatures to visuals, which pick up on any obvious disparities. They’ve blocked Fury himself on two occasions, but Fury—even brainwashed—was such a badass that he’d gotten loose both times. After that, Loki had stopped sending him.

(By that point, Loki’s control had spread out beyond the borders of the Big Apple, and it only got worse from there. SHIELD hasn’t been anywhere _near_ the portal in years. Tony resents that, because Loki had used _his tower_ to open the portal.)

Even benched, though, Fury was far from useless. When Earth’s leaders tried to negotiate with Loki, the Asgardian’s silver tongue played suspicions against paranoia, subtle enough to drive wedges between their factions and set them at each other’s throats, destroying any chance they had of a united front against the invasion. The intel that Loki used had clearly come from an insider source, and the precision of the attacks spoke to a source whose clearance level had been among the highest in the world, whose finger had been on the pulse of every nation, a man aware of every crucial operation there was to know about.

With Fury at his side and the Chitauri forces at his back, Loki had proven to be unstoppable. Hell, the only thing that keeps Tony going these days is his stubborn refusal to let Loki take the earth without a fight. Not the first time he’s gone up against seemingly insurmountable odds, or even the first time that he’s expected to die, but… after everything he’s lost in this war, the impending defeat feels heavier and more real than anything else he’s ever faced.

Sometimes he brushes a hand against his throat, or runs gentle fingers over the scars on his scalp, and wishes that Loki had really killed him, back in New York. It would have been easier.

Eight long years they’ve been fighting, and, by now, barring a few scattered pockets of futile resistance, it’s over. Loki has won.

The casualties have been surprisingly light, and centered on actual combatants—Loki seems serious about wanting to conquer and rule, not destroy. Even so, with the chaos of battle and the communications grid down, it’s been impossible to get an accurate tally of the dead.

Tony has borne witness to a few deaths, and been close enough to others to be aware when his allies have fallen. Battle-forged friendships that lasted a few short years, or even as little as months.

“Months” was Bruce, who could apparently live through shooting himself in the head, but couldn’t survive magical flames.

There hadn’t even been a body.

The first of the heroes to be taken out, back at the start of the invasion, had been Thor, but that was perhaps to be expected. It was hard to raise arms against a person you’d grown up with, and Tony understood that better than most. When Thor had gotten through to Loki’s position, he hadn’t attacked his brother, but had apparently tried to reason with him.

Natasha had watched Loki stab Thor in the gut, quickly taking down one of their heaviest hitters. Surprising, she’d thought, for such a little blade, but when she’d managed to get to Thor’s position, he’d been awake but immobile—some kind of paralyzing poison.

Then Barton had shown up and lured her away, alternately fighting and fleeing until she’d sussed out the game and returned, too late, to the Tower.

Thor’s body had been gone, and no one had seen him again.

Tony had barely known Thor, though he’d gotten to know Thor’s girlfriend, Dr. Foster, for a few months, before she went missing too. Though, in fairness, a lot of people have gone missing; such is the nature of war.

There’s still no sign of Steve, no info on whether he’s dead, wounded, comatose, captured. In the wake of the HYDRA attack, Tony had spent _months_ searching for him, to no avail.

The clashes in their worldviews had been too strong for them to become anything like _friends_, not in two short years. Still, though they’d irritated each other at every turn, they’d also found ways to work together like a team, and they might have _become_ friends, eventually. Tony had made Steve a little less naive, and reminded him not to follow orders blindly; Steve had helped Tony remember that he wasn’t a one-man army, and that accepting help isn't a sign of weakness.

It’s been a long six years without him.

Sometimes Tony wonders if Steve was the reason that Barton and Fury had dropped off the map. Overnight, Loki’s movements had become far less certain, less targeted, suggesting that Fury, at least, had either escaped or been killed. A bittersweet victory, if even that: Loki’s progress hasn’t been stopped, merely slowed.

It’s been only three years since Tony saw Coulson’s body in the rubble, covered in blood, with Natasha at his side. Tony could have done something, _should have_, but there was no letup in the battle, and by the time he’d had a chance to fly back their way, their position had been covered by most of a collapsed building. With the Chitauri pressing him, he hadn’t even been able to stick around to dig for their bodies.

Pepper’s been gone for… four years. Brave to the last. He’d been beside her in spirit, from half a continent away, controlling one of his suits as they took on Loki directly, hoping that Tony’s newly modified missiles would be enough to put Loki off his guard so that Doctor Strange could finally subdue him.

A foolish hope, but foolish hope is all they have these days.

Being there in person wouldn’t have changed anything, and yet he can’t forgive himself for having gotten the intel wrong. Can’t forgive Strange for leaving without him—skipping instantly to Loki’s position, with Tony unable to do anything but wire in remotely and hope it would be enough.

He still sees her in his nightmares, sees their final moments together:

_Loki’s spell pinning Strange to the side of the skyscraper with purple goo, the sorcerer’s head lolling in unconsciousness_.

_Pepper readying herself to unleash more missiles, and Loki whirling to face their attack, a manic grin spread across his face_.

_The missiles bursting into dandelion fluff, floating out over the city_.

_Loki’s grin getting just a little wider_.

_Loki’s hand waving, and Pepper’s suit falling to pieces around her_.

_The horror in her eyes, an instant before she plummets toward the ground_.

_Tony’s metal arms reaching out to grab her_.

_Her lips forming three quick words_. (Sometimes he dreams of the real words. Other times, she’s whispering _Don’t blame yourself_.)

_How close he was to grabbing her, right before the suit went offline_.

_His own agonized scream, echoing in the dark_.

On his worst nights, he recalls that at the moment he lost connection, his suit was directly above her, closing the distance and heading toward the ground at high speed. With eighteen stories between them and the ground, perhaps his attempt to save her merely hastened her death.

His last allies—the ones joining him on the battlefield, at least—had been Rhodey and Peter.

Before the invasion, Tony would’ve thought that a fifteen-year-old was too young to even trail a robber, let alone join a war against an intergalactic supervillain. But a lot had changed in four years, and Tony’s priorities had shifted; in the desperate bid to keep the world from falling under Loki’s control, if a teen wanted to help out—especially a teen with superpowers, which might actually accomplish something—he wasn’t going to turn him down.

Well. He’d tried to drive him away, after Pepper’s death. But then, he’d tried to drive _everyone_ away… every ally he’d had left at the time. And Peter had stuck around regardless. Quite possibly the only reason that Tony hadn’t drunk himself to death.

Possibly the reason that Tony had learned to smile again, though it had taken him a few months to get to that point.

Peter would’ve been nineteen, this year. August 10th. Even in the worst of their scrambling bid to survive, Tony had made it a point to always get him a birthday present, and something that resembled a cake (edible, if he could manage that as well).

_And if you died, I feel like that's on me_.

Rhodey had been a soldier; he’d known full well what he was signing up for. He’d watched men blown to bits around him, had mourned friends and allies and even some enemies. Had carried those burdens with him back to civilian life. He’d been ready, in a way that Tony would never be ready, to give his life for the cause.

Peter had been… he’d been so innocent. God, the first time he’d actually _taken a life_… Tony remembers holding him that night, rocking him through the tears, giving him all the support that he had to offer while Peter came to grips with being a killer. Never mind that he’d saved lives by doing so, and not in a hypothetical way; that irrevocable act had _changed_ Peter, changed him in ways that they could never take back.

From that point on, he’d gotten deadly serious about his training.

_If I have to kill, I want it to be because there isn’t any other option. Not because I don’t know what else to do. Teach me to do better, Mr. Stark. I need to be better than this_.

He’d gotten so much better. Peter’s skills had improved beyond measure, and yet (more importantly, to Tony’s mind) he’d never lost his optimism. The jaded killer that Tony had feared he might become just… never happened. The little boy who’d stood up against a Hammer Drone was still in there, alongside the cheeky teen sneaking home at two A.M. with the vain hope of his aunt not noticing the absence. Despite everything he’d been through, _Peter_ had still been _Peter_.

And then…

…not even a year ago…

_If you died, I feel like that's on me_.

…Tony had followed up on a lead, some tech they could use to upgrade the armor. A long shot, but by that point they’d run out of good options, twice over.

The ship had been two hours from shore when they’d flown in, as stealthily as Tony could manage. Once it reached port, there’d be no chance of getting past the guards, but Tony had persuaded Rhodey that the mission was _possible_ and _necessary_, and Peter had gone along because he was stealthier than either of the adults could hope to be. (At least, once he’d learned to keep his mouth shut. But then, the war had pushed both of them past nervous snark (for the most part), and pushed Peter into swift action and a kind of battle-ready calm that Tony only _wishes_ he could achieve.)

And so Peter, quiet and calm and confident in his abilities, his suit steadily changing color to blend into the world around him, had gone belowdecks, while Tony and Rhodey kept watch above, their comms open but none of them saying a word.

Forty minutes later, Tony had been rushing frantically through the ship as it flooded around him; Peter’s comm was down and the last few words had been Loki’s and why the hell was Loki even in the area and oh god this had all been a trap and Peter was down here somewhere Peter was drowning and Tony couldn’t get to him in time—

He would have kept searching—God, he would have kept searching for the rest of his _life_—but his head had been spinning and his vision had gone black and the next thing he knew he was being pulled up out of the water by Rhodey, and being flown to shore, as he shouted and cursed and screamed at the man who had once been his best friend.

Once Rhodey had set him on solid ground, he’d punched him to the dirt and flown off back toward the ship. But Rhodey’s suit had been less damaged, and he’d caught up with him again, and didn’t let him go until they were well over the mainland and Tony had finally run out of strength to fight it.

They’d taken shelter in the shell of a bodega, and Tony had glared at Rhodey until his eyes burned, but he hadn’t shed a tear.

Since then, dozens of times, he’s dreamed of watching Peter, or of _being_ Peter—alone and abandoned in the bowels of a sinking ship, speaking ever more frantically into his broken comm and desperately trusting in a rescue that never came; the water closing in around Peter’s neck and climbing up toward his nose and Peter, the boy who never knew when to give up, finally giving in and sobbing out apologies to his aunt for being reckless enough to get himself killed. Peter’s last breath bubbling up through the water, and his body floating lifeless at the bottom of the sea.

In some ways, losing Peter had been even more devastating than losing Pepper. It was the point at which Tony could truly see the end coming, a time when he had no more fight left.

He’d known the sort of exhaustion that could be cured with a hearty meal, a good night’s sleep, and a strong cup of coffee—luxuries he hadn’t had in ages, of course, but where you found a renewed sense of hope and determination and, for the moment, you could pull yourself together and slip on a social mask and keep moving. And there’d been times in his life when he’d needed to withdraw, to spend a week or a month ignoring the world’s problems while he worked on his own, taping up the cracks and gathering enough energy to keep him going until the next time he fell apart.

But he was getting dangerously close to being so broken that he couldn’t be repaired, not even temporarily. That was the point at which he’d give up for good, lay down his arms and never try to fight again.

The end was closer than he’d realized.

Two months later, he’d seen Rhodey fall to a laser through the temple. The shot was quick and clean and merciful, compared to the other losses Tony had faced, and he’d fought his way out past the rest of the mercenaries and didn’t even think about retrieving the body. They’d completed the mission, and Tony couldn’t think about what it had cost; the time for sentiment had ended years ago.

* * *

_And now, less than a year after losing Peter, after losing any faith he had left, he’s staring up at Loki through blurry eyes, gasping in terrified breaths and ready to call it quits, to call everything quits_.

He’d never signed up for this. Nothing he’s done has really made a difference; hell, maybe fewer people would be dead if he hadn’t thought to play the hero.

Peter might still be alive. Captive in a war-torn country, under the reign of a supervillain from some other planet, but alive, whole, _breathing_. Pepper might still be alive, still smiling at him while she chastised him for whatever escapades he’d gotten up to while playing around with women and alcohol and whatever finer things in life still existed under Loki’s reign, and not trying to pretend that he was anything like a _hero_.

The ones who were actually good at being heroes, or at least stepping up when the world needed them—Steve, Strange, Coulson, Natasha—they’d still be dead, because Tony couldn’t imagine a world in which they stood aside and just let Loki have his way. But Pepper and Peter would still be alive, and… and that could have been enough.

_Loki doesn’t kill him immediately. Tony can’t make out his expression, but maybe he’s taking the time to gloat_.

_Well, let him. Tony’s done, and he’s too tired and wrung-out to even move_.

_Finally, the words come, rumbling with satisfaction that turns Tony’s stomach. “Well, Man of Iron, are you prepared to admit your defeat at my hands? Or shall we keep this up for a while longer, just to be sure?”_

_Tony looks away, his final act of defiance_.

_“You fought valiantly,” Loki says, calm and serious, “and to the best of your ability, for much longer than I had expected from you. When you have done all that you possibly can, it is no shame to be defeated by a more powerful opponent. Nor is it a shame to admit that this has happened.”_

_The silence between them is filled with Tony’s wet and miserable breaths. He wishes Loki would just kill him already, just get it over with_.

_That mercy probably won’t come until after Tony has abased himself. Until Loki has had his fill of drinking in his opponent’s disgrace_.

When Loki simply stands there, looking down at him, almost curious and with no indication of impatience or irritation, something inside Tony finally snaps.

“All right, fuck,” he spits out. “I’m done. You win. It’s over.”

Loki’s lips curve up a little, with something like affection in his eyes. “Are you certain?” he asks. “I’m up for a few more rounds, if you’d prefer.”

“Fuck that. I’m not giving you the satisfaction of playing with me anymore. I’m _done_, I surrender, you can just… I’m done.” He lets his eyes fall closed, and breathes deep of the dusty air he’ll likely never breathe again.

Something suddenly shifts about his armor, and his eyes dart open in alarm. Loki flicks his hand and a piece of Tony’s gauntlet flies away, and Tony realizes that the suit has fallen into its component parts, no longer confining him. A bit shakily, he sits up, letting the pieces fall where they will; it’s uncomfortable to be sitting on chunks of disjointed metal, but discomfort is hardly his foremost concern.

Loki has a thin metal collar in his hands, red with gold trim, and the corner of his mouth is twitching up.

“Shall we make it official?” Loki purrs. “The great Man of Iron, brought low before the God of Mischief, after eight long, struggling years.”

“You gonna bury me in that thing?” Tony can’t help but ask. His arms feel so very heavy.

“Do you imagine that burial is in your future?” Loki asks brightly.

Maybe Loki’s going to throw his body on a junk heap somewhere. Or stick his head up on a pike outside his base of operations, a warning to all who dare challenge him: _This is the fate of heroes_.

Tony’s far too tired to fight it.

“Fuckin’ give me that thing,” he says, reaching for the collar. He doesn’t even care about being handed something by his worst enemy; at this point, what more could be done to him?

When Loki lays the collar in his hand, the trickster’s grin turns absolutely _feral_.

When Tony closes the metal ring around his neck with an ominous click, Loki throws back his head and lets out the most energetically delighted laugh that Tony has ever heard, a laugh that goes on and on and on.

It turns his stomach, but he’s not about to add to his degradation by throwing up right now.

Eventually—surely it’s been minutes, though Tony’s sense of time passing has ground to a halt—the laughter dies away, and Loki lets out a self-satisfied sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he says, still chuckling a bit, and Tony has the bizarre impression that Loki’s about to declare that the whole invasion has been one glorious joke, and he’s calling the whole thing off and heading home now that it’s over.

“I’m sorry,” Loki gets out again, “but I had to get that out of my system. Excuse me.” And he waves a hand toward Tony, who feels a sudden chill go through his throat.

And then Tony’s world lurches sideways, because Loki is saying words that can’t possibly make sense. They _can’t_.

“Pepper, darling,” Loki says, with every sign of delight, “remind me, how many times?”

“At least three,” Pepper’s voice says, with no particular sign of distress—perhaps even a little excited—and it _can’t_ be Pepper’s voice, it’s a lie, it’s some new hell that Loki has concocted for him, illusions and _mind tricks_ and—

“Three fucks, didn’t change his mind, and he took the collar out of my hand. I do believe I owe you dinner.”

Tony knows that gasp, that sudden expression of disbelief, of hope—and why would she be hopeful, if it were really Pepper, if they were really talking about him, if Pepper knows that Loki has just captured the last superhero on American soil—surely Pepper can’t have fooled him that completely, she can’t be—she _can’t be_—

“Oh, and tell Coulson that he did squawk something about not giving me the satisfaction, but it wasn’t him refusing to surrender, so I’m going to say it doesn’t count.”

_Pepper?_ Tony tries to say; his lips form the words, but his throat won’t make the noise, not even a whisper.

“Be gentle with him,” Pepper’s voice says, layered with emotions that Tony can’t even begin to parse.

“You know I take the utmost care with my prizes,” Loki returns, amused but affectionate as well. “I shall see you shortly. Please prepare a room for him; I’m sure he’d like to rest.”

If Pepper is compromised, Tony doesn’t want to _rest_, he wants to _die_. If Pepper’s been fooling him all this time—

Or—no.

Oh _God_.

Loki’s got a magical scepter. Loki managed to brainwash _Nick Fury_.

Loki’s got _Pepper_.

Tony had given up on looking for her body after a couple of _weeks_, after he’d managed to make it to Oregon to see for himself the place where she fell.

Loki’s had Pepper for _four years_.

Loki calls Pepper _darling_.

“Well,” Loki says, brightly, “shall we head out? I’m sure you’re eager to be reunited with your woman. She’s really quite delightful, you know. Highlight of my evenings.”

“I’m going to ram that scepter through your _brain_,” Tony mumbles as he gets to his feet. Not that he can do anything quite yet; even if he wasn’t worn out, even if he hadn’t just been defeated, he still doesn’t know where Loki is keeping any of his prisoners. Slaves. Thralls. There’s no guarantee that killing Loki would knock them free of the mind control, and so Tony has to go along with this, for now.

There’s no guarantee that Loki won’t put the whammy on him as well, but he’s run out of options; it’s a chance he’s going to have to take.

“Pepper, my sweet, tell Clint that he was right about the death threat. When I get a chance, we can discuss his costume plans. Toodles!

“The collar won’t actually let you hurt me, of course,” Loki says, turning to Tony and extending a hand. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if you found a way to break it open before the month is out. I look forward to your efforts. Shall we go?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
Typical Tony problems: PTSD, panic attacks, drinking problems, suicidal ideation, massive guilt
> 
> Major Death Scenes (flashback or envisioned by Tony, detailed depictions): falling, drowning  
Minor Death Scenes (short and/or vague): crushed by falling rubble, bloody body, magical flames, shot by laser  
_Please Note: If you want to avoid Major Character Death fics, well, spoilerspoilersomethingspoiler but this isn't a fic to wallow in character death, aside from the drama of the first chapter, and later chapters might make you see those scenes differently_.
> 
> Tony also suffers suffocation and sensory deprivation.
> 
> The psychological aftermath of having killed someone (this happens to Peter).


	2. Peter (flashback)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's POV as he searches Loki's ship for the crucial MacGuffin tech.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (_As usual, chapter-specific content warnings in end note._)
> 
> **Original Plan:** Each chapter starts with a short flashback, in italics, detailing the POV of successive characters.
> 
> **Wrinkle:** This flashback is easily longer than the actual chapter I've been writing.
> 
> **New Plan:** Flashbacks go in even-numbered chapters; the main plot stays in the odd-numbered chapters.
> 
> This allows me to post this chapter earlier _and_ avoid a giant segment _all in italics_, so there's that. Another benefit: I can use italics to represent Peter's increasingly frantic inner voice, at least to some degree. I love using the mechanics to indicate tone and mindset like this ^_^
> 
> Also, my beta reader and I have been completely unable to mesh schedules this summer, no matter how we try, so the brainstorming of certain elements has not happened. And I haven't had feedback on my use of pronouns, which is annoying me in a couple places but I think better feeds into Peter's mindset than if I kept minding my he's and him's.
> 
> Ergo, the mysterious tech remains a MacGuffin, for this chapter, that may or may not make its way into the overall plot. Imagine whatever sort of tech you will, that Tony would like and Loki would be transporting by ship. If you have suggestions, please point them out! I just needed a reason to split the party.

Heroes master their fear, and it’s a good thing that Peter has some practice in that, because he can’t recall anything quite so terrifying as this: He’s ghosting through the bowels of Loki’s ship, using his camouflage to quietly evade mercenaries (they don’t even look up), hunting for the tech that Mr. Stark sent him to find (relying on Karen to spot it; Mr. Stark swore he’d explain it later), and then, turning, finds his vision filled with Loki’s lopsided grin.

His spider sense hadn’t even blipped.

“Now, what’s a spider doing on my ship?” Loki asks, and taps the side of his head before Peter can even react. The comm in his mask crackles and dies, and Peter’s glad for his mask because he can feel the blood leaving his face all at once.

(_How did Loki even spot him? His camo suit… probably doesn’t work against alien eyes, which seems obvious now. Maybe Asgardians see infrared or something._)

In a straight match between him and Loki, he’s pretty well screwed. Loki may not _look_ all that buff, but he’s heavy and solid in a way that even Peter’s super strength can’t match, and he’s had hundreds of years to practice melee skills (Peter hasn’t even had a decade). The last time they shared a battlefield, Loki tore his webs away like tissue paper—and that’s not even counting the illusions that Loki can throw at them, or whatever other magic tricks he’s got hidden in his cape.

The odds wouldn’t be in Peter’s favor even with his suit at full capacity (which it isn’t), even if he were ready to kill (_which he isn’t, not really; he’s killed to save innocents, sure, but he’s still only eighteen, and right now Loki isn’t even threatening anyone except, well,_ him), which means it would be foolish to engage. And yet Loki’s fast enough to counter any move he takes to flee.

His best bet (_his only bet_ ) is to delay until Mr. Stark can get to him. Which probably means trying to find that part of himself that used to chatter at his opponents, and turn it back on. It’s been a couple of years; he’s learned to channel his nervous thoughts inwardly, and stay silent.

“Camouflage, too,” Loki muses, an almost admiring note to the velvety menace of his voice. “That’s new.”

“Yeah, not, um, not so much,” Peter flounders. “Mr. Stark managed to upgrade it while we, while we went to—”

“Georgia, yes. The same time he managed to upgrade your missiles.”

“Well, _his_ missiles—I-I don’t—”

“No, you don’t like to take lethal action, do you? Not even when the fate of the world is at stake.” Loki stalks forward and Peter backpedals, not sure of what’s behind him anymore but unable to take his eyes off the threat.

His spider sense still isn’t firing. That’s its own breed of terrifying. If Loki leaves an illusion here and teleports behind him, he won’t even get a warning.

“Look, it’s been, what, five years now? and you haven’t, um, we’re still fighting back, so, um, don’t you think it’s too much of a hassle?” He hits the wall a bit too hard, and stays there, pressed against it, as if it could offer him some level of support, protection. “You could, you could take all those flying whales and weird alien guys and just, y’know, go home.”

“You think I’m not making progress? I didn’t take you for a fool, Parker.”

Frozen in place, Peter lets the terror wash through him, clinging to the knowledge that he doesn’t have to fear for Aunt May anymore; that she and Ned and MJ are about as safe as it’s possible to be these days, far from the main combat zones, and Loki knowing his name (_how did Loki even learn his name? has he found a way to tap into their comm units??_ ) isn’t the threat that it would have been just a couple of years ago.

Loki closes in, inches from his face. “Do you fear me, little spider?”

The laugh that crosses Peter’s lips is the kind of awkward that used to be for the parts of his life that weren’t life or death, back when he had to deal with things like curfews and homework. “I’d be a fool not to,” he rejoins, going with the obvious because the cheeky one-liners aren’t coming to him quite so readily these days.

“Mmm. And yet, you join the battle. Defend your home. There’s courage in you.”

An image leaps into Peter’s head, grainy surveillance footage: Loki grabbing Mr. Barton by the wrist, staring into his eyes. ‘You have heart,’ he’d said that day, right before—

In a sudden panic, he scrambles up the wall, hits his head on the ceiling so hard that for a moment he can’t even see. Ignoring the blindness and the pain, he shifts until he’s clinging to the top, panting and trembling and well within reach of Loki, who’s gotta be like six and a half feet tall and fast enough to counter any escape attempt and _just because he isn’t holding his scepter doesn’t mean that he can’t pull it out of that weird pocket dimension_—

His eyes swim back into focus, and Loki is watching him with an amused sort of grin, and Peter can’t help but blurt out “Please don’t brainwash me!”

Loki stills, the grin vanishing as his eyes go wide. Then his chin comes up. “I need not tamper with your mind to defeat you.”

“You did it to Mr. Fury!”

“_Yesss_,” Loki hisses, “when I had just stepped through the portal, drained and disoriented—and, if I recall, briefly _on fire_—and found an entire contingent of mortal soldiers poised to attack me, demanding that I surrender my weapon. In similar circumstances, would you not use any means at your disposal to survive, to neutralize the threat?”

Shifting uncomfortably, Peter thinks back through the footage that Mr. Stark showed him. “But they weren’t a threat to you. Their bullets bounced right off you, and you—you took out the entire room in under twenty seconds! I counted!”

“Should I have gamely let them carry on attacking me, until they found a sort of weapon more suitable to the job? SHIELD is nothing if not resourceful.”

“They’re still not the ones who shot first.”

“When conflict is inevitable, only a fool lets his opponent land the first blow.”

“Figures you’d be a ‘Han shot first’ type,” Peter mumbles.

“What?”

“Never mind.” Sighing, Peter flips down to the floor again, no longer quite so concerned that Loki’s going to harm him. At least, not immediately, and not in a way that clinging to the ceiling a few inches over his head could possibly prevent.

Maybe that’s why his spider sense hasn’t gone off yet. The fact that Loki doesn’t seem to consider him a threat might be the only thing protecting him right now.

He tries not to feel insulted.

“Anyway, who’s to say it was inevitable? You’re faster than anyone in that room; you could have escaped—” But even as the words are spilling out, he’s realizing the flaws in that plan, even before Loki starts pointing them out.

“In an unfamiliar location,” Loki begins, “with no knowledge of the facilities, no idea which way to run, and no access codes for any of the doors?”

Peter rolls his eyes, wondering if (and how) his mask mimics the expression. “C’mon, you can _teleport_.”

“Oh, a _marvelous_ plan—to get myself killed. Or captured.”

Peter freezes. “What?”

Shaking his head, Loki makes a moue. “Teleporting to an unfamiliar location is a risky business, Parker. Imagine the results if I materialized inside of another person.”

For the second time in five minutes, Peter blanches.

“Or a wall,” Loki presses on, mercilessly. “Or a desk, or a stairwell. And, until we got to the surface, I didn’t even realize that we’d been underground; I could have tried to leave the building altogether and ended up in a layer of dirt, or even bedrock.”

Fighting down a sense of queasiness, Peter asks, “Can’t you, um… can’t you see where you’re going?”

“If I have time, I can project my awareness. But I believe we’re discussing a scenario about a hasty escape due to my superior speed?”

“Okay, yeah, that’s fair,” Peter concedes, reluctantly.

“Supposing that I did not encounter such mishaps, there’s still the issue of how many doors I’d have to bypass in such a way. As drained as I was, I doubt I could have gotten through them all. And then how is my situation improved? Trapped in the midst of the facility, with no possible escape route, and enemies closing in on every side. With even less power than I’d had when I arrived.” He crosses his arms. “Would you like to dream up any more ingenious plans?”

Peter swallows, but presses on. “What we’re doing right now—talking. You’re the Silvertongue, right? You can talk your way out of anything.”

A flash of surprised pleasure crosses Loki’s face, but then his expression turns serious again; he raises his chin. “Part of that reputation is knowing when speech would be effective, and when not; sometimes the best tactic is a show of arms. Diplomacy in the absence of information is difficult at best, and my intel on Midgard was a few centuries out of date.”

Peter frowns. “Why would that matter?”

Loki cocks an eyebrow. “Come, Parker, you’re smarter than this.”

_A few centuries ago… no cell phones, no computers… no electricity, cars, planes, the whole industrial revolution, none of that. Back in 1850, they still believed that diseases were caused by bad air. In the early 1600s, they didn’t even have microscopes_.

_Humanity had invented gunpowder a long time before that, but nothing like modern handguns, let alone assault rifles. Back then, you shot once, and it took forever to reload_.

_Take a man from that time, bring him through a portal to the future, surround him with SHIELD agents wielding automatic weapons?_

“Yeah, well…” Peter rubs the back of his head. “I mean, you could’ve talked them down and then gotten the info later, right? Once nobody was threatening to shoot anyone.”

“And how, pray tell, would I talk them down? How does one prove to SHIELD that he is not a threat? Knowing them as I do by now, I doubt they would have been satisfied unless I’d surrendered entirely and let them lock me in some sort of magic-resistant cell, somehow trusting them not to kill me.” His eyes narrow. “That’s a lot of trust to ask from me, Parker.”

“Look, I know SHIELD isn’t the most ethical organization—”

“Yes, do you think you can blame _all_ of the unwarranted captivity and torturous experiments on HYDRA infiltrators? Because my sources say no, and one of them used to be the man in charge.”

“—but they’re trying to protect the world. They’re still the good guys, more or less.”

“Which they showed by pointing lethal weapons at me the second I stepped through the portal, well before I’d done anything to threaten them.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have shown up in the middle of their secret underground base!”

“_They’re the ones who came knocking!_ ” Loki’s face twists with outrage. “When the Tesseract is active, beings throughout the Nine Realms take notice. SHIELD was experimenting with a force of _unimaginable_ power, one they can’t possibly control, and blindly calling out to forces beyond their comprehension. Forces now pointed straight at Earth. They’re lucky that I was the first one through the door.”

Peter reels a little, shook by the realization that the Chitauri might not be the only aliens poised to invade Earth.

“The Tesseract rightly belongs in Asgard’s vault, where it can be defended. Among the Nine Realms, you mortals are as children, flailing about with pointy sticks and whispering over the shiny rock fallen from the sky. The true power of the Tesseract is far beyond your grasp, and you think to wield it as a weapon?”

“You just said we’ve got more enemies heading our way,” Peter protests. “We might need that kind of power!”

Loki huffs a laugh and leans back on his heels. “That reasoning strikes me as familiar. Boromir, wasn’t it, thinking to wield the power of the One Ring?”

Blinking at him, Peter splutters. “You—you’ve seen _The Lord of the Rings_?”

A smirk twists the corner of Loki’s mouth. “I can’t focus on the war effort without a break now and then. It was… recommended.”

Peter rubs his temples, the fabric a bit scratchy against his skin. “And did you ever stop to think that maybe you’ve been playing the role of _Sauron?_ ” he asks, voice peaking a bit at the end.

“Why do you consider it natural for you to go to any lengths to defend your world, even forgiving SHIELD its excesses, yet find it beyond the pale if I take reasonable action to defend my person against unwarranted attacks?”

Don’t argue with the wording, Peter tells himself, because he’s already getting kind of lost in this exchange—too many threads to keep track of. “So, okay, attacking the SHIELD agents might’ve been justified,” he concedes. “_Maybe_. But the guys with guns were down _before_ you started brainwashing anyone. Right?”

“Barton was one of the men who _had_ been shooting me,” Loki protests—“the most accurate marksman in the room and one with access to weapons other than mere bullets. I subverted him rather than kill him outright; does that not seem merciful?”

Peter’s head is spinning, and not from the blood rush of righting himself. He’s sure—he had _been_ sure—that it was better to die than to be forced into the enemy’s service against your will, but… from other points of view, refusing to kill an enemy truly was a mercy, even at such a cost.

“And do you imagine that Fury doesn’t carry a weapon? He was simply too stunned to use it at first, and then realized that bullets weren’t effective, and further realized that he had a better option to neutralize me.” Loki’s gaze darkens further. “Fury was stalling—prepared to drop an entire building on my head. That could have done what your bullets could not. You’ve no idea how much damage I can take and yet live, but even I would have been helpless when encased in that much weight.

“The humans would surely have died,” Loki continues, drawing slowly closer, his eyes locked onto Peter’s. “Barton and Fury included. But I might have lain there, helpless, in the rubble, so deep that they would not even dig for my body. I might have suffocated for days as my body exhausted itself trying to heal the damage. Or perhaps there would be enough air, and instead I’d have starved. For weeks, or months, struggling alone there in the _dark_.”

Even knowing that Loki’s a master of lies, Peter shifts uncomfortably; he can’t help but imagine the picture Loki’s painting. And just because the guy lies a lot doesn’t mean that _everything_ he says is a lie. Enough of it rings true: Mr. Fury _had_ been stalling, hoping the portal would collapse the ceiling before Loki could make it to the surface. Mr. Barton had pointed it out on camera right before Loki showed up suddenly in front of Mr. Fury and touched him with the scepter.

“If not for Barton’s warning,” Loki says, low, “I might not have realized his ploy in time; as it was, we barely escaped. No, Parker… Fury was the leader of SHIELD, a threat before he even laid eyes on me, and no other has come as close as he did to _utterly_ destroying me.

“As for my part? I saved his life—because he _would_ have died when the building collapsed, had I simply incapacitated him—and used his information and skills to make this war far less messy than it could have been. And his unwilling service lasted a little over two years, before I released them. Both he and Barton are safe, and dwell in relative comfort, waiting out the end of this war.”

“They’re no longer brainwashed?”

“The scepter no longer controls them.”

Mr. Fury and Mr. Barton haven’t been seen in about as long as Captain America has been missing, which would be… yeah, a little over two years after the invasion started. Maybe Loki’s telling the truth… or, then again, maybe they’re dead.

“Why should I believe you?”

Loki’s grin is back, confident with an edge of affection. “You would be a fool to ever take my words at face value. I do not see you as a fool. And yet, I haven’t lied to you today—not once.”

Even if that’s true, it’s not the same as Loki being honest. True statements can be used to mislead, and Loki’s a master at that. Maybe he’s found a way to control people without using the scepter. Or, for that matter…

“Are they still even human?”

Loki rears back a little. “What kind of question is that?”

“You didn’t turn them into mice, or, or fish, or something, did you?”

Loki’s laugh is pure, unfettered delight. “Ah, Parker. The ideas you come up with.”

“‘Safe and in relative comfort’ could mean they’re in a small aquarium on your desk somewhere.”

“Well, I certainly have the ability to do such a thing,” Loki admits. “Someday you’ll have to ask Thor about the time I turned him into a frog; it didn’t turn out quite as I expected. But, no, they’re still human, both physically and mentally. I haven’t plied my powers in that fashion in, oh, a few centuries.”

Another reminder that he’s dealing with a guy who’s older than the United States, probably older than even England. 

“So here is another truth,” Loki says, his voice dipping low, as if meant entirely for Peter’s enhanced hearing. “You’ve seen the next phase of my plan, even if you don’t yet realize it; whether in your brain or by digital recording, I cannot let you bring that information to the rest of my opponents. So I cannot allow you to go free… but you need not die.”

His spider sense still isn’t giving him anything, but Peter’s blood runs cold at the implications.

“If you think to hinder my cause,” Loki adds, “or aid your own, your death would not accomplish either. Why surrender your life pointlessly? No reason for you to go down with the ship.”

Suddenly there’s an explosion from the next room over—the room with the tech that Peter had glanced over only enough to realize that the piece that Mr. Stark needed was not among them. But if Loki’s destroying his own tech, then—

Peter’s spider sense goes off seconds before the door blasts open; he vaults out of the way as water sprays violently in.

Then arms wrap around him from behind, an iron grip, and Loki’s face leans in close beside his own. Over the roar of the water filling the room, Peter can still make out his words, quick and deadly serious:

“Surrender, and I’ll spare your life. You’ll be out of the fight—I won’t use the scepter on you, I swear it. Just tap out.”

As he struggles, the ocean reaches his lips, and he closes them, frantic, the bitter salt biting on his tongue. The water splashes up to cover his nostrils.

“Or, if not, little spider… how long can you hold your breath?”

_There’s no more air in the room_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:** Discussion of canon-typical magical brainwashing.
> 
> Discussion of some likely scenarios for teleportation accidents, along with what might have happened to Loki had he survived the collapse of the facility but been unable to free himself.
> 
> Threat of drowning.
> 
> Loki's manipulation of Peter might hit painfully close to gaslighting. Of course, he's not trying to get Peter to question his own sanity, but rather to interpret a lot of known detail in a way advantageous to Loki's goals in this scene. At this point, it's up in the air how much Loki authentically believes the tale he's spinning.


	3. Acclimation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki brings Tony to his new home, where a few surprises await.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, did I go through revisions on this chapter. Multiple times I got flowing into a big conversation that I couldn't bring back around to the main point, and eventually I'd cut them and go in a different direction, hoping to maybe weave the topics back in during later chapters. But at least it's here!
> 
> Still not happy with the voices. Doing my best, but feeling kinda less than ideal, in the absence of my beta reader. Still, let us soldier on! If I end up fixing up the voices, I'll leave notes to that effect.
> 
> Chapter-specific content notes at the end, as always.

Most of the questions that come to Tony’s mind would be useless or redundant by this point, confirmation of things that he can already guess from the circumstances.

_How long have you had Pepper?_ Four years. Four goddamn years.

_So she’s alive?_ Obviously.

_Why did you take her? What have you been doing to her?_ He can guess, and having his guesses confirmed would be the opposite of reassuring.

Loki’s hand is still stretched out toward him. Loki’s smile shows nothing of madness or malice; it’s calm, satisfied, patient, even friendly.

Of course, playing a role must come naturally to the God of Lies.

Finally, Tony goes with a simple, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Loki blinks, and frowns, his hand dropping to his side. “To what are you referring?”

“Pepper’s alive. You—you—if you’d told me, two or three years ago, that you had her, you could’ve… I would’ve surrendered. You could’ve won. Why didn’t you use that as a bargaining chip?”

“Ah. That would be precisely why I did not.” Tilting his head, Loki makes a moue. “It would be easy enough to find a person you care about, and force you to yield in order to spare their life, or spare them pain. But that does little more than prove that you are human. My aim isn’t merely to _stop_ you; I must _defeat_ you, and this I have done, the moment you put that collar around your own neck.”

Reflexively, Tony rubs his hand over the collar, the slightly cool metal hard and unyielding, yet loose enough to hang just over his collarbone. It’s lighter than it has any right to be.

“What—” He swallows. “What does this thing do, anyway? What did I just agree to?”

Loki chuckles, his casual amusement a far cry from his battle madness. “That’s the sort of thing you ask _before_ you accept the deal, not after. You agreed to whatever my conditions might be, did you not?”

Tipping his head back, Tony covers his eyes with his palms and presses them in, just to the point of pain. “Okay,” he says finally. “I don’t… really have a say anymore, do I? Obey you or die, that’s fine, I get it.”

“Inventing conditions for your own captivity? How intriguing.”

“Inventing…?” He pulls back his hands and blinks at Loki, thinking back over what he’d just said. “Which part did I misunderstand?”

For a moment, Loki merely studies him, as if considering which words to use.

“I don’t have a say, I need to follow your orders now… is it the ‘obey or die’ part? Is it ‘obey _and_ die,’ like you’re going to kill me regardless? Or… you’re not going to _let_ me die? You’re gonna get me home and brainwash me, just like—”

“That didn’t work so well the _first_ time,” Loki cuts in, without losing his good humor. “And, as amusing as it is to hear you speculate, I think this conversation would be better held at your new home.” He holds out his hand again. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but this part isn’t optional.”

Tony doesn’t move. “If that’s the case, what’ll you do if I refuse?”

“You’re not going to refuse,” Loki returns, calmly. “You’re just going to _delay_. And since this area has been seized by my forces, and there are no more heroes around to rescue you, you’re simply delaying your own rest and comfort out of some irrational attempt to control what happens to you. Or, perhaps, to put off learning some uncomfortable truths about your future.” A grin spreads across his face, his eyes fairly twinkling. “I’ve got all the time in the world, Stark, but you’re mortal. How much of your short life do you intend to waste?”

When Tony still hesitates, Loki adds, “If nothing else, the Tower does have fine bathing facilities, and you could use a proper meal. Nothing poisoned, I assure you.”

His hand doesn’t waver. Tony stares at it for a long moment, and then sighs, reaches out, and takes hold of the inevitable.

* * *

* * *

* * *

The trip is as fast as two footsteps, and leaves Tony with a terrible lurching feeling in his stomach, like he’s just stepped off a carnival ride after too much tequila, but, from one moment to the next, he’s in the war zone and then in the penthouse of Stark Tower.

The green lighting under the stairs is the first and most obvious change. There’s a lot more black to the decor, as well, and a bit more opulence (Viking-style) in the furnishings—barrels near the bar to his left, furs (in black and white and several varieties of rich, dark green) all over the sofas to his right—but it’s not as different as he’d expected.

Doesn’t mean he can’t resent the changes, even the improvements. He really doesn’t like people touching his things, and eight years is a long time to be without the home that he and Pepper built together. And the little touches are still here, details that he would never have thought of on his own, that he would never have _remembered_—her handiwork across the whole of his life, everything she ever touched.

Not merely twelve percent. Not even close.

Loki lets go of his hand and stretches while heading over to the bar. Tony stays put, tears welling, as he deals with the knowledge that Pepper has been here all this time, and he stopped looking for her. He _stopped looking_. Loki and his damnable scepter have had Pepper for four goddamn years, indulging whatever perverse fantasies Loki might want from her, and Tony couldn’t stop him because Tony had assumed, four years ago, that Pepper was _dead_, not _captured_.

Of all the things that Tony can never forgive himself for, nothing else comes close to this… betrayal. _Letting her go_.

“I’d offer you a proper drink,” Loki says, “but I imagine your diet has not been particularly healthy these past months. So the nostalgia can wait.”

Last time Tony was in this room, they’d traded threats, Loki stalking around like a panther while Tony stalled for time, hoping that JARVIS could ready his suit before Loki got bored of the exchange. The gambit had almost killed him; once Loki had determined that he couldn’t be leveraged against his own teammates, the maniac had elected to toss him through a plate-glass window.

That alone could have killed him. Not even counting the fall. He still has nightmares about both of them.

Wondering, tiredly, if Loki intends a repeat performance, Tony pivots toward the windows that used to overlook Manhattan.

And freezes in sheer atavistic terror.

Flowing past the windows are long, dark, sinuous shapes, trailing fins and tentacles as they glide. Around them, the sky _no, that’s not air_ is deep indigo, not quite black, not offering enough contrast to make out much detail on the creatures beyond their general shape and size—so long that he can’t make out beginning or end.

Large enough to make the Chitauri space whales their prey.

Trembling violently, he stumbles backwards and goes sprawling over the coffee table, letting out a whimper as he falls. The last time he’d felt this tiny and vulnerable, this aware of his human frailty, he’d at least been in his suit, but there’s nothing, nothing between him and those _things_ except two thin layers of melted sand that shouldn’t even be keeping the water out.

Maybe that’s why he feels like he’s drowning again, gasping without any air.

“They can’t hurt you,” Loki’s voice floats over to him, for once without even a hint of amusement. “They can’t even _see_ you. No eyes, and you’re small enough that even their vibration sense wouldn’t pick you up, any more than humans sense the mites crawling through their eyelashes.”

Tony’s vision greys out, like static on an old TV.

* * *

He’s aware of his back hurting, and his knee feels like it got wrenched somehow, but the surface beneath him is soft and furry and slightly warm. Given that his head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton wool, it’s easy to just relax into the fur and put off dealing with whatever new horrors reality has to throw at him.

Something hard presses against the back of his neck, which rouses him a little. He reaches up to pull it away and feels the tug on the far side of his neck as well. A collar.

He freezes.

“You’re not the only one who fainted,” Loki says. “In case it makes you feel better.”

_Damn_.

He keeps his eyes closed, not yet ready to deal with—and he lets his mind slide right off that thought, a trick he’s gotten pretty good at over the years. But the analytical side of his brain is starting to reassert itself. The glass is there, it’s not cracking, not broken; it’s somehow holding out the water. The water’s dark, so either it’s night here, or the water’s deep, and, in any case, his penthouse was never designed to withstand the kind of pressure you get from undersea construction.

Either Loki’s swapped out the glass for better materials, like you’d find in an aquarium, or—more likely—he’s used some sort of magic to ensure that the whole structure doesn’t just implode.

Magic’s likely for another reason: The definition he could make out on those _not thinking about that_ would require lighting from behind them, and he hadn’t noticed any visible light source, not even glowing undersea creatures (or plants) that could account for it.

That’s really the extent of where he can go in analyzing magic: _This isn’t possible with our current grasp of science, and so a wizard did it_. (He _hates_ that, but there’s no denying that it fits reality as he knows it. So far.)

Focusing on his breathing, he slowly lets one eye open, and then the other, and glares balefully at the window, daring it to scare him again. The shapes are still out there, but the trembling slowly fades, leaving him more exhausted than he was when he’d surrendered.

Which makes sense. He hasn’t done much to make him _less_ exhausted.

When he finally finds his voice again, it sounds like someone else’s voice entirely. Or maybe like him, back when his voice was just starting to break. “_Underwater_,” he croaks out, like his brain can’t come up with anything approaching a complete sentence.

“Well, yes.” Loki’s apparently sitting somewhere beside him, but Tony can’t tear his gaze from the terror on the other side of the glass. “It varies from day to day,” Loki adds. “The tower moves, you see.”

“…moves.”

“Harder to track. Even the gatekeeper can’t pin me down; that’s the most crucial advantage. Are you getting up?”

Tony takes in a deep breath, and lets it out again.

Well, at least being underwater means that Loki isn’t likely to toss him through the window again.

When he pushes himself gingerly to an upright position, he finds a glass of clear liquid sitting on the coffee table.

“Just water,” Loki asserts. “Drink up.”

Lifting the glass, Tony squints at it, considering how many dangerous chemicals lack an obvious smell. Or taste.

“Really, if I wanted to poison you—”

“I know, I know.” He takes a breath, and then a sip, and then downs the glass.

“Good.” Loki leans back in his chair. “Now, the food should be ready shortly, but I’ve some pemmican in the meantime, if you’re feeling faint.”

“…pemmican,” Tony echoes, thoroughly off-balanced as much by Loki’s phrasing as by his uncharacteristic hospitality.

“Lean meat, tallow, and berries. High in protein and—”

“I know what pemmican is,” Tony snaps. “Why do _you_ even know what pemmican is? I thought you guys touched down in Norway, not North America. Shouldn’t you be offering me pickled herring or something?”

“I’ve been here eight years; it would be odd if I didn’t pick up a _little_ of your native culture. Pemmican is nutrient-dense and delicious, and I can make it using any kind of meat, berries, and fat. The latest batch has goldfire berries from Muspelheim; they’re quite spicy. Care to try some?”

Collapsing forward, Tony rests his head in his palms and sighs. “Loki… what are you doing?”

“Call it a first step in getting you back to health. You’ve gotten far too thin.”

“Gee, I wonder why.”

“And now that you’re part of my household, you’ll have access to good food again. I believe the phrase is ‘get some meat on your bones’?”

“Are you planning to eat me?”

A delighted laugh. “So many disaster scenarios, my dear Stark.”

The endearment grates along his spine. “So why the hell do you care?” he blurts out, casting a glare at Loki. “Why so concerned with my welfare?”

Loki blinks at him, then makes a moue. “You’re my property,” he says. “Spoils of war. That which belongs to me, concerns me.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you treat your captives with the _utmost_ of care,” Tony says, biting back bile over images of the kind of ‘care’ that Loki might be bestowing upon Pepper.

Casually, Loki sets his glass on the little side table and leans forward, elbows on knees. “I admit I’ve had much to learn about caring for mortal prisoners; even your strongest would hardly survive under the sort of treatment expected in Asgard. But no prisoner has died in my care, and I’ve done my best to abide by _most_ of the standards proposed during the third convention at Geneva, after your good captain pointed me in that direction. Food, clothing, shelter, medical attention, dignity, and so forth.”

“What, does Asgard make its prisoners go naked and then starve them?”

Loki recoils slightly, flashing a look of disgust. “Why would we want to see them naked?” Then he considers for a moment. “And what’s the point of keeping slaves if they’re too weak to work?”

“So it _is_ slaves. Not just ‘prisoners’.”

“Well, yes. Or rather, that’s what happens on Asgard. When the enemy falls, the victorious general takes his pick of the survivors; they’re expected to serve his wishes for as long as he retains them. Some few may be retained for life, but most are eventually freed.”

‘Eventually’, in the eyes of an Asgardian. He could wear out their lives in servitude, and yet, for Loki, the decades would barely register against the centuries he’d lived, the eons that stretched out in front of him. One day Loki might look up and realize that his slaves had developed wrinkles and grey hair, and be shocked by the reminder of their fleeting mortality.

After a long, considering moment, Tony asks, “So is that what you plan to do with us? Work us to death, and then set us free once we’re too old and feeble to rejoin the fight?”

“My dear tinker,” Loki says, spreading his arms with unthinking grace, “the fighting’s all but over; we’re fast approaching a new peace. I realize this will require a bit of adjustment, but if I’ve come so far in a handful of years, it can hardly take much longer to secure a lasting victory. And it would be foolish for me to let you come to harm, after taking such great pains to bring you in alive.”

A sudden red haze floods through Tony’s skull as he sees the friends he’s watched die—Bruce, Natasha, Rhodey—_Peter_—and he vaults out of the chair toward Loki, hands intent on murder.

Loki merely tilts his head, eyebrows raised.

Tony is scrunched up on the floor, _wrenching_ himself against bonds that seem to draw tighter the more he struggles. His legs are curled under him, arms folded behind his back; he can’t even raise his head, and the weight of the collar is pressing his forehead into the floor.

Loki hadn’t even moved.

“Damn you!” Tony shouts to the floor. “Damn you damn you _damn you why me?!_ Why wait so long, why take me alive, why not—why couldn’t you have saved any of _them?_ ” Even straining himself until he’s shaking with the effort, he can’t break position. “Damn it all, why do you want _me??_ ”

There’s a rustle—Loki getting up from his chair—and the click of his boots drawing closer. A moment later, Loki’s hand is stroking through his hair, almost thoughtfully; Tony tries to jerk away, but he can’t turn his head or even roll to the side.

“I told you,” Loki says calmly, “the collar won’t let you attack me. Calm yourself, and the bonds will dissipate.”

Tony struggles harder, realizing he’s just making it worse. But even as he does so, he notices an anomaly: There’s no pain. The position is hardly comfortable, nor the helplessness, but it doesn’t _hurt_. He sucks in deep, angry, sobbing breaths, trying to get control of himself before he falls into a full-on panic attack.

The smooth, gentle stroke of Loki’s hand doesn’t abate.

“To answer some of your questions,” Loki says, “why I waited so long? I needed to wear you down to the point where you could truly let yourself surrender. You weren’t ready, before.” A pause. “But now, with you, I finally have a complete set.”

The words don’t mean anything, not right away. But as Tony’s strength slowly drains away and he stops fighting, the words keep running through his head. A complete set… of what? Tony and Pepper? But that’s just a pair; it sounds like Loki’s referring to a larger group. Maybe Fury and Barton _are_ still alive.

When Loki was on the phone—or magical equivalent—with Pepper, he’d mentioned Clint. That was Agent Barton, the first man he’d subverted to his cause. Not dead, then. Tony plays the conversation over in his head.

_Tell Clint that he was right about the death threat_.

_Tell Coulson_—

Tony’s stomach lurches, recalling too vividly the sight of Coulson lying at death’s door, Natasha cradling his bloody body—and then, on the next sweep, barely five minutes later, the rubble that had completely buried their position. He’d thought—

Raising his head a little, he finds Loki’s boots filling his vision. “Natasha,” he chokes out, feeling lightheaded. “Is she—do you have her?”

“Ah, very good,” Loki purrs. “You’re starting to ask yourself the right questions.”

“And Coulson’s _alive_?”

“He is indeed,” Loki says. The hand leaves Tony’s hair, and the boots change angle and step backward—Loki sitting down again.

Slowly, Tony unfurls, the magical bonds mostly gone, but still making themselves known, like a warning. With careful breaths, he scoots painfully back to rest against the sofa, not having enough energy to even get up.

“Where’s Pepper?” he blurts. He doesn’t want to face what’s become of her, but he can’t see spending another moment in this place without her. Without knowing that she’s real, that she’s here, that it’s not merely one of Loki’s tricks, crueler than any trick he’s played in eight long years.

“I’ll let you see her momentarily,” Loki says, lifting his glass again. For a moment, he regards the contents. “This is something of a private space,” he adds, “so they’re not allowed up to this level.”

“…How many captives do you _have_?”

A grin splits Loki’s face, and his eyebrows rise as he takes a long, slow sip of his glass.

Then, setting the glass down, he closes his eyes, body stilling as if the beginning of meditation.

“Pepper, my dear,” he says—Tony’s breath catches—“we shall be down momentarily. Is the new room prepared?”

“Everything’s ready,” Pepper’s voice says, although Tony can’t see her.

“And Steve?”

“Have you ever known him _not_ to be prepared?”

“I suppose not,” Loki agrees, and opens his eyes.

It takes a moment for Tony’s brain to catch up, and then the grief hits him razor-sharp: Steve’s disappearance, the frantic search; Tony channeling his anguish into rage, coldly upgrading his armor with whatever supplies they could manage at the time and then taking out several of Loki’s key locations with almost worrying ease.

In the months that followed, he’d barely even talked with Pepper, aside from trying to persuade her to leave the team and run off to somewhere safer, somewhere at the outskirts of the war. Maybe even take shelter in one of the bunkers; he could have gotten her that. But she wouldn’t hear of it, leaving him in such an unbalanced state: Losing Steve had devastated him more than losing his parents ever had.

A year and a half later, she’d been gone, and Tony’s world had shattered once again. He still hasn’t recovered.

But now…

“You’ve got Steve?” Tony chokes out.

“Oh, yes,” Loki says with a grin.

“Steve _Rogers_? Captain America?”

“Oh, my dear Stark,” Loki purrs, practically glowing. “You’ve really been out of the loop, off fighting the war practically by yourself these past few years. It’s time to bring you up to speed!”

Four years since losing Pepper. Six since losing Steve. And all this time, they’ve been here—under Loki’s thumb. And if there’s any way to free them, it’s up to Tony to figure it out.

The elevator has been replaced with a set of portals. Stepping through the first one makes Tony’s skin crawl, but it’s a small price to be that much closer to Pepper. They emerge on the inside of the elevator shaft, with a solid floor above and below; the door ahead is tan and seemingly made of wood, with no sign of a doorknob or any other means of access.

Loki lays his hand on the door, and it slowly swings open.

Waiting those few seconds is an agonized eternity as Tony tries to keep himself from falling apart, tries to psych himself up for the first sight of a woman he thought lost to him. A woman who is, in all likelihood, enthralled to Loki, and therefore not to be trusted, not right now, but all the same it’s still Pepper in there—_he hopes_—and it’s taking everything he has to ensure that he won’t start crying the moment he sees her, the moment that door opens and—

“Ohmigod Mr. _Stark!_ ” shrieks a half elated, half devastated voice as arms clamp around him faster than any part of him can react. “You’re here you’re _here_, omigod, I mean, I’m sorry that he caught you and maybe it’d be nice if you were still out there fighting but you’re here now you’re safe it’s okay Mr. Stark it’s—”

Over the shoulder, Tony locks eyes with Pepper, halfway across the room, her brows drawn up in a complicated emotion as she gives him an equally complicated smile.

On the edge of his awareness, he’s aware of others in the room—Natasha and Fury and Steve, other faces he can’t parse right now, not with Pepper right there in front of him, but—

And then the words swim into focus again:

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark, he wouldn’t let me tell you, wouldn’t let any of us—I begged him to let you know, but that was one of his big rules and he said it was part of the war effort and he couldn’t do anything that would—”

The far wall is a large mirror, reflecting every inch of the wall around the door to the elevator. Tony can see the person hugging him, or at least the back of them, a brown-haired head and a blue t-shirt and jeans. But it isn’t—it can’t be—

He puts both hands on the person’s shoulders and shoves him away, hard, out of the hug and into a distance where he can _see_. And looks into the open, earnest eyes of a boy he’s mourned for an entire year.

“Mr. Stark?”

All the strength goes out of Tony’s knees, and he sinks to the floor, Peter following him down.

“Um… uh… are you okay, Mr. Stark? Are you hurt? Mr. Banner’s probably still in the lab, but he can—he’s good with first aid and stuff, actually he’s been teaching us the basics since, well, since before I got here, but… oh, geez, I didn’t squeeze you too hard, did I, Mr. Stark? Um, Miss Potts? Miss Potts, he’s—he’s shaking, is he—I didn’t—”

“Tony?”

Pepper’s voice breaks the dam, and Tony is suddenly sobbing, curled up in Peter’s lap, Pepper’s hand stroking his back, with no thought left to deal with who might be watching or what they might think of him.

Peter is alive, and Pepper is alive, and there isn’t room for any other thoughts right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:** If Tony's around, alcohol can't be far behind. I don't think I'll warn for it in later chapters, unless it gets pretty bad.
> 
> Other Tony typicals: guilt, panic attacks.
> 
> Mention of brainwashing/mind control. More broadly, slavery -- prisoners of war converted into slaves, which is a big part of this plot bunny.
> 
> Terror, similar to that felt while Tony was through the portal into Chitauri space -- that existential dread of being a very small, very vulnerable creature caught up in circumstances beyond your ability to cope.
> 
> A stress position. Repeated implications of sexual abuse (though, so far, that's all in Tony's head).
> 
> A lot of swearing, compared to my norm. As usual, each and every swear word I use is carefully considered within the context, and fits the mood/tone and the character; it's never gratuitous, and if I can do without it, I will. When I use swearing, it's generally the case that trying to soften the language would soften the conveyed meaning or emotion.
> 
> * * *
> 
> I had a rough draft that lasted about this far -- hence the three updates in quick succession. I have no idea how soon the next part might come; we're quickly approaching October, when priorities change.


	4. Natasha (flashback)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _but he’s right, there’s no time, and Coulson’s dead without some divine intervention right now and if that’s Loki then she’ll take it, even if Coulson would rather die. He’s unconscious and not even breathing, he doesn’t get a vote._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did my best to keep the medical details as realistic as I could manage, given various constraints. I hope it's not distractingly bad (and if I flubbed some major details, let me know so I can do a better job in future projects).
> 
> Chapter-Specific Content Warnings in End Note. That's my usual technique, with anything particularly spoiler-y. If I miss anything significant, point it out! Thanks =^_^=

Beneath the press of her hands, Coulson’s blood is warm, his pulse growing weaker as he gazes up into her face, expression softening from confusion to calm weariness, fading off as if to go to sleep, as his life drains away and she can’t _stop it_ and she can’t _save him_ and god if Clint were here then maybe, maybe _something_ but he’s not even going to get to say goodbye—

She’s so caught up in what little she can do that the sounds of the battle have dropped away and she doesn’t even notice the bastard until he drops to his knees on the other side of Coulson and puts his hands over hers.

“_Don’t you touch him_,” she growls, a mother bear defending her cub, but it’s toothless because she can’t move her hands, can’t even attack with her feet, because she has to stay here, has to keep up the pressure—

“Would you prefer him to die?” Loki asks, as if mere curiosity, as if the answer doesn’t matter to him one way or the other. He’s the invader, he’s the one waging this war, and war means people die and they’ve already lost people and they’re going to lose more people and god why Coulson why not her it should be her it should be—

Tears are streaming down her cheeks, and she can’t even wipe them away.

Blue energy glows over Loki’s hands, crawls down through hers and into Coulson and she _hates_ it, she hates that Loki is doing anything to her handler, her _friend_, but she can’t do anything to stop him and her hands are cramping up from the sudden chill—

Coulson’s breaths are slowing, his eyes closing, no, god, no, not yet, not here, not _now_—

“_Bastard!_ ” she cries out, helplessly, as Coulson’s skin turns pale as ice.

“I’ve given him time,” Loki says calmly, and she looks up at him, the furrow of his brow as the last bit of color leaves Coulson’s face, and she would strike out on instinct but that would be letting him go and she can’t let him go, she _won’t_—

“Do you understand?” Loki asks her, and she locks eyes with him, the anger bleeding away to confusion. “I’ve given him time, and we might yet be able to save him. Will you allow me to take him?”

She squashes the first instinct—_hell no_, only a lot more murderous—and tries to work out what Loki intends with this move; he’s probably lying about being able to save him, she’s not picking up on any signals but she’s compromised right now, can’t be objective, can’t _think straight_—but he’s right, there’s no _time_, and Coulson’s dead without some divine intervention right now and if that’s Loki then she’ll take it, even if Coulson would rather die. He’s unconscious and not even breathing, he doesn’t get a vote.

But she’d sooner take his life with her own hands than allow Loki to turn him traitor like he did with Clint, and so she spits out “Not without me.”

Loki tilts his head. “You would surrender yourself to my care?”

Her lips tremble. There’s every chance that Loki’s going to use his scepter on them, and he’s faster than she is—but she’s gotten out of worse. She’d missed several chances to kill Clint, to free him from whatever nightmare Loki had trapped him in, but at least—if need be—she can let Coulson fall by the hand of one who loves him. But she can’t bring herself to accept his death, _not yet_. Not when there’s a possible alternative.

She meets Loki’s eyes, lets him see her determination and the death threat if he plays with Coulson’s life. “Take us both.”

Loki smiles—not a smirk but a smile, almost affectionate—and with a quick flourish of his hands there’s a thin collar there, made of dark leather. He holds it out for her inspection, and her trembles take up her entire body now.

“This collar has one function,” Loki asserts. “It prevents you from taking hostile action against me. It is also a sign that you have surrendered to me; I will not put it on you without your explicit permission.”

If he tried, she couldn’t stop him; her hands are all that’s keeping Coulson from bleeding out right now, and any sort of moves with her feet would require putting her weight on Coulson’s injuries. And her hands have gone numb, soaking up the cold from Coulson’s body.

“Will you accept the collar?” Loki asks, as if they have all the time in the world.

“It won’t control my mind? Like with Clint?” It’s her last piece of resistance, because every other factor has rerouted itself around the need to see Coulson alive tomorrow morning.

Holding her gaze, Loki shakes his head. “As I said, it has only the one function. I realize that you have no reason to trust my word, Agent Romanoff, but you are a formidable fighter, and I would be a fool to allow you to enter my base without some form of protection.” He pauses. “Either allow me to take him, or accept the collar and come with him, and I swear on the Norns that I will do whatever I can to save his life. I doubt that any human interventions could save him at this point, though you are free to hope for salvation from some other source… if, of course, you could contact them.” He spreads his arms. “Simply say the word, and I will leave you to your fate.”

Bastard. Their comms cut out fifteen minutes ago, and Loki knows it because he’s clearly the one who did it.

“Put it on me,” she chokes out.

He moves around beside her, holding the collar. “Are you certain?”

“Put the damn thing on me,” she spits, and closes her eyes as the leather closes around her neck.

Loki lifts Coulson as though he’s no heavier than a child, and Natasha goes up with him, still doing her best to maintain pressure. Then, as if from nowhere, the scepter is also in Loki’s hand, held carefully so he doesn’t let Coulson slip. Natasha’s breath catches, but Loki doesn’t aim it at either of them; he aims it skyward and fires off two quick shots.

Natasha looks up to see the building collapsing around them, but Loki’s arm wraps around her waist and her stomach lurches and they’re suddenly

somewhere else.

It’s Stark’s tower, the missing tower, but Natasha doesn’t have time to register more than that before they’ve shifted

again, and they’re in some kind of medical lab and Loki is laying Coulson out on one of the operating tables. He pulls his hands free and then stills, eyes closing.

“Strange, Bruce, Steve, medical, urgent,” he says.

“Roger,” says a voice, immediately, and Natasha’s eyes grow wide.

“Uh, yeah, be right there,” a startled voice chimes in, and it _can’t be_.

There’s a moment, and then Loki says, “Doctor, if you still believe that you deserve that title—”

“I am en route,” a third voice says, petulantly, and Loki opens his eyes.

There’s a flurry of movement as Loki washes and dries his hands and then hunts through cabinets, pulling out supplies faster than any human could. Bandages and antiseptic, scissors and scalpels, tubes and needles. The kind of supplies that the war effort has been running out of, and Loki has access to a fully stocked medical lab. Natasha can’t imagine that Tony had all this stuff before the tower got taken; Loki must have acquired it some time after the fact.

Cold is shooting up her arms from wrists to elbows, but she just keeps pressure, as much as she can, hoping it’s enough. She can’t even feel her fingers anymore.

Hurried footsteps, and Steve Rogers rushes into the room. Around his neck is a shiny blue collar; Natasha’s too stunned that he’s alive to even think what to say.

“Prep for blood donation,” Loki says, handing Rogers a bottle of iodine and a packet of swabs. Rogers nods and hurries to the wash station.

Stephen Strange is next, sullen but efficient; his collar is red-orange, and more ornate, and he’s got thin metal shackles on both wrists, though no chains. He casts a quick glance over at Coulson and then takes over at the sink the moment Rogers moves out of the way. “How long has he been like that?”

“Cold, less than five minutes. Bleeding out—” Loki looks to Natasha.

“About two minutes before Loki froze him,” she supplies, feeling caught up in the machinery of the process, not able to do much more than play along. “He got—it was shrapnel.” She swallows. “Stomach wound—pretty bad. I applied pressure almost as soon as he went down, but—”

“He’s not actually frozen, is he?” Doctor Strange shoots a glare at Loki.

“I simply lowered the temperature throughout his body,” Loki replies calmly. “Hypothermia is easier to treat than hypovolemic shock.”

“How do you even know that term?” Strange gripes, already prepping supplies, but Loki doesn’t answer. “Bruce, get me an esophageal thermometer.”

“He’s not breathing,” Natasha adds, voice tinged with desperation. “Not since—”

“That’s fine,” Strange shoots back. “A cold body needs far less oxygen. If Loki’s got the temperature low enough—and we’ll know that in a moment—then we’ve got a good hour to get the bleeding under control. The brain and the heart need to stay cold, they’re the ones that suffer most from lack of oxygen.”

“Natasha, you know his blood type?” Rogers asks; he’s already on a reclining chair, swabbing down the crook of his elbow.

“I—” She casts about; it’s something she _should_ know, something she surely has stored away somewhere, but she can’t think—

“Test strips in the top left cupboard,” Strange says, nodding in that direction. “I don’t suppose you’re O-negative, Agent Romanoff?”

She shakes her head.

Loki quickly locates the strips and brings one over, sets it on a tray.

“Fifteen percent chance of being negative,” Strange says. “In which case Steve’s blood wouldn’t match. There’s a chance that it could work anyway—some people with negative blood don’t yet have the Rh antibodies—but we can’t quickly test for it, and a mismatch would likely kill him.”

Loki frowns, but doesn’t interrupt.

“Any allergies to any sort of medication? Sedatives, pain relievers?”

“Not that I—wait. Contrast dyes. He—”

“Might not even be an allergy, doesn’t matter in any case. Anything else that you know of?”

“I don’t think so. Not that he’s ever mentioned, but, but he doesn’t—”

“…Nat?”

Natasha turns, as much as she can without letting up on the pressure—and it’s Bruce, his eyes wide and a little vulnerable. She feels a little dizzy at the memories of the little time they’d gotten to spend together, the thought of time they’d wanted, planned on… but they’d never had the chance before he’d gotten… killed, she’d thought. Burnt up in magical flames.

There’s a thick purple collar around his neck, with a dark green pendant hanging from it.

For a moment, Bruce hesitates, as if wanting to speak to her, but then he turns to the sink and starts scrubbing in.

In less than two minutes, they’ve got the area prepped; Bruce has attached a saline drip to Coulson’s arm, and Strange is pushing a flexible thermometer down his throat, while Loki seems to be focused on maintaining his temperature. Bruce moves around Natasha to get a blood sample on the test strip and hands it to Steve, who’s already started filling a blood bag.

A minute later, Natasha is backing away, forced to leave Coulson’s fate in the hands of Loki’s team—men she once knew, but can no longer trust. They don’t seem any different, but they’re following Loki’s orders, as though he’s the one in charge, and the only one who seems resistant about it is Doctor Strange.

“Twelve degrees,” Strange says. “Can you make him slightly colder? We’re aiming for ten.”

“I can try. What’s the lower threshold?”

“Don’t let him freeze. Ice crystals kill the cell.”

“That should be fine, then. Let me know when it needs to change.”

Holding his hands over Coulson’s body, Loki closes his eyes, focusing.

“That’s perfect,” Strange says, a moment later. “Keep it right there.”

Loki nods. Then, with a wave of his hand, he brings up an illusion over Coulson’s midsection—part of his internal organs, see-through like a hologram. The group studies them quickly, picking out the location of the shrapnel and the parts that will need to be repaired, and then Bruce dives in, his hands showing up as part of the projected image. Doctor Strange provides guidance while Loki hands over the tools.

“B positive,” Steve calls out, when they’ve barely begun.

“Good,” Loki murmurs, focused on the image. “I don’t have to go raid a hospital this time.”

“Bucky’s got B positive,” Steve adds.

“Then we’ll have twice as much available,” Loki says. “Just keep getting units ready.” He closes his eyes and goes still. “Bucky, come to the medical lab. With haste.”

“Right away,” a gravelly voice returns.

Natasha hangs back, feeling useless, her hands in her armpits as she flexes her fingers and tries to coax some feeling back in.

“Romanoff,” Strange says, and she turns with a start. “Warm water should help.”

When she just stares at him, uncomprehending, he raises his eyebrows and adds, “With your hands.”

Blinking, she realizes that she’s still got them tucked into her armpits. She heads for the sink and gets some warm water going. It prickles and burns, but she barely notices, too focused on the sight of Coulson’s blood flowing down the drain.

Behind her, Strange points out more shrapnel, and Loki occasionally fetches equipment they didn’t have ready in the first pass, whenever Strange demands it. It’s a surreal sort of dance: Loki playing the nurse, Bruce playing the surgeon, and Strange monitoring vitals while making use of Loki’s projection to guide Bruce through procedures that Bruce was surely never trained in.

Before long, another man joins them—long hair and a metal arm, dull metal collar. Natasha pegs him for special forces by how efficiently he takes in the scene before he’s fully in view, before anyone else notices that he’s there.

“We’ll need your blood,” Loki says bruskly, and the man nods and takes the other reclining chair. Then, surprisingly, Loki pauses by the man’s good arm, and lays a hand on his shoulder, with what seems like concern in his eyes. “Will you need to be quieted down for this?” he asks, softly.

The man swallows. “Nah, I’m—I’m good. I’ll let you know, if—”

Loki nods, and hands over the iodine and another packet of swabs, then goes back to focusing on Coulson’s body temperature.

Natasha’s hands aren’t cold anymore, not any colder than if she’d been out in the wind for a bit without gloves. She dries off and moves back out of the way, not even sure what she might be able to do to help.

Bruce hisses. “Don’t want to complain, but my hands are going numb here.”

“It’s just sewing now, correct?” Loki asks. “I can take over.”

“Without losing track of his temperature?” Strange asks sharply.

“Those who master magic get used to multitasking.”

“Can you switch the saline to a blood bag first?” Bruce asks. “I would, but, like I said, numb hands.”

Natasha watches Loki swap out Steve’s blood bags, and wonders when the hell he took a level in modern medicine. Or sewing.

Soon enough, Loki’s hands are in Coulson’s guts, and Natasha is biting back the urge to drag him away from Coulson, to squeeze him around the neck until he passes out and just keep squeezing. But he’s… he’s trying to save Coulson’s life, and she has to remind herself of this, remind herself that they _need_ him, because Bruce’s hands were probably getting as numb as hers were a few minutes ago, and they don't have _time_, and Doctor Strange doesn’t have the fine motor control that he used to have, and Loki wouldn’t be foolish enough to let him keep his magic, even if he had the kind of spells that would help in this case, and

and she realizes she’s back in the far corner of the room before she realizes that she’d been backing up. Her legs aren’t holding her up anymore, and she sinks to the floor, feeling somehow colder. There’s a rushing sound in her ears.

The projection that floats above Coulson lets her see every movement of Loki’s hands; he doesn’t seem to be doing anything nefarious, but she’s not convinced that she would be able to spot it if he were. But Loki works quickly and competently, stitching up one location after another without any real hesitation, except for one moment where he stops moving entirely for a good five or six seconds before continuing as if nothing has changed.

The work is mesmerizing, like she can’t focus on anything else, like nothing in the world matters except that Coulson is being patched up, one tiny piece at a time.

There’s a sound by her ear, and a _something_ creeping into her line of sight, and she pushes it away before it can block her view of the surgery

but it catches her hand

and she pulls, tries to pull free, but it holds her until she glances that way and

Clint.

Natasha looks away, head lolling to the side as she keeps watch on Coulson; she’s here for a purpose, has to keep Loki from using the scepter—

“Nat. Hey. Nat.”

_I think she’s_ says someone in the room, but the rest of the words drift away from her.

“Nat, it’s me. It’s Clint.”

And she wants to ignore him, because she’d already made peace with his death but he’s not dead and now she has to deal with the other thing and it’s all too much for her and she turns away, hugging herself.

Clint shifts into her line of sight again, his brows drawn together, worried. All the little things that she knew about him come flooding back, but she can’t trust any of them now.

“You’re not you,” she says miserably. “He’s in your head.”

“He _used_ to be in my head,” Clint rejoins. “When he first got here. When he needed someone he could trust. Hasn’t been in there for three years now, Nat. Nothing stopping him from doing it again, but he won’t. He doesn’t. Not since Bucky.”

Glancing over at the metal-armed man—Bruce is just swapping out blood bags, _how many blood bags can one man fill in a session, anyway? it’s too much_—she swallows and tries to collect herself. There are words, but she can’t put them together right, can’t make them out—

“Still. Under his control.”

“_No_,” Clint says firmly. “Well… still prisoners, we’re still… under his control _that_ way, but not… I swear to you, Nat, he’s not in my head. Not anymore.”

She can’t look at him. “How could I even trust you?”

“You saw my eyes, right? New York? Bright blue?”

Her eyes squeeze shut and she sees him, the blankness of his game face, the way he barely seemed to recognize her. Those eyes—

Turning, she sees the eyes she used to know, not bright unnatural blue but blue so pale that sometimes she thinks they might be green. Her lips begin to tremble again.

“Master of illusions,” she murmurs.

“Nat…” His finger brushes her cheek and she flinches away; he doesn’t try again. “His illusions don’t stick around unless he focuses on ’em. You think he could keep this up while handling a surgery?”

She looks up; the fight to save Coulson is still going on, and she’s not sure how much she’s missed. Bruce has switched with Loki again, patching up the wound while Loki holds his hands out over Coulson’s body. The projection’s still floating over Coulson as well.

“Multitasker,” she asserts. “He’s keeping up _that_ illusion.”

“Yeah, but he’s got a limit. He’s not gonna spare a bit just to trick you.”

Of course he would. She _knows_ he would, she knows he’s good at juggling lots of details, at holding out for the long con. For reasons they haven’t yet discovered.

“Besides, Nat, what would be the point? You’re here, you’re his prisoner, you’re wearing his collar. We’re not going anywhere. He doesn’t use us to help with the war efforts, just… keeps us around. I mean, it’s boring, sometimes, but it’s not a bad life. Steve even convinced him to look over the Geneva convention, so he—”

“Time?” Strange asks, as Loki’s projection vanishes.

For a second, Natasha panics—why hadn’t she looked for a clock?—but then Steve’s voice rings out clear: “Eighty-one minutes, thirteen seconds since you called me.”

Eighty-one…

It’s been over an hour since Loki took his breath away.

Clint’s arms are around her and she’s shaking, face buried in his shoulder. “He’s gone,” she cries. “Coulson… he’s—”

“Probably still fine,” Strange barks. “You’re not dead until you’re _warm_ and dead. And we’ve dealt with all the bleeding, so it’s time to get his core temperature up. _Slowly_. Before we can worry about frostbite or any of his limbs. Bruce, warm up some saline. Steve, we need heat packs.”

“_How_ slowly?” Loki asks, washing the blood off his hands. “Because I can pull the cold out of him.”

“That’s… that’s not how cold works,” Bruce protests, weakly, as he grabs a fresh bag from the fridge.

“It’s how _my_ powers work,” Loki counters. “I move cold around.” He looks to Strange. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t just—”

Strange frowns. “Abrupt temperature changes can shock the system. How well can you control the temperature at his core?”

“Well enough,” Loki says, tilting his head—but Natasha thinks that he seems a bit nervous, as if he’s never done this before. “So… warm up the core to normal levels, and get the blood back to human normal, then the skin last?”

“Precisely.”

Loki nods, and slides to a seat beneath the table, leaning back against the central support. Briefly, he makes eye contact with her, then takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, bowing his head a little.

At first, there’s nothing noticeable; Bruce and Strange are still working on him, Steve bringing over heat packs and blankets and fresh bags of blood. Loki looks to be meditating more than anything else.

But then his brow furrows, just a little, and Natasha watches as the pale flesh she’s grown to hate slowly bleeds away to patches of pale blue, deepening as they cover the surface like spreading ink.

Strange keeps barking orders, and yet Natasha can’t tear her gaze away from her captor; she sits there, motionless, barely aware of Clint’s arms, as Loki’s breath begins to fog, and ice crystals slowly creep up around his clothes.

It’s oddly beautiful.

She’s not sure how long she just stares at him, but suddenly Steve is kneeling by him, his own breath fogging. “Loki,” he says, without getting too close. “It’s done. He’s warm enough.”

Loki’s eyes open slowly, and they’re not pale blue like before, but bright red, even the sclera. For a moment, he blinks, as if not quite awake, and he closes his eyes again.

“Thank you, Captain,” he says, voice weary.

“Do you need help?”

“No. Do not touch me.” Loki takes in a deep breath, and lets it out again. “It will take me a moment. Is there… anything else that needs—”

“He’s got a heartbeat,” Strange says, from the other side of the table. “And he’s breathing on his own. I’ve got him sedated, for now. Might still have brain damage, but he’s alive; I think we’re out of the woods.”

Clint’s arms tighten around Natasha’s shoulders. She keeps watching Loki, wondering over the blue of his skin.

Struggling to his feet, Loki grimaces. “Doctors, I leave him in your hands. Call in any assistants you require.” Then he’s staggering over to the counter, holding himself up and breathing hard. Ice crystals spread out from his hands along the counter, not far but noticeable. “Alert me the moment he awakens, or if… any sort of emergency….”

Steve is at his side. “Can I help?”

“Do not touch me,” Loki gasps. “It will hurt you.”

“You look like you’re ready to pass out.”

Loki’s lips quirk up. “I’m… far hardier than I look, Captain.”

“Even so—”

“Is Bucky okay?”

“He’s fine. Just filling up the supply in case Coulson needs more blood.”

“He didn’t panic?”

“He’s fine.”

Letting out a shuddering breath, Loki nods.

“You’re trying to distract me,” Steve says, “and it’s not going to work. Do you need help?”

For just a moment, Natasha picks up on Loki’s distress, a break in his social mask, before he has his expression back under control. “I’ve depleted my _seidr_,” he murmurs. “That’s all. Your concern is appreciated, Captain, though unnecessary. It will refill over time.”

“That’s why you’re still… like that?”

“…Yes.”

“Do you want a bed made up for you down here?”

Loki hesitates; then his shoulders slump. “That would be… helpful. Just for a few hours.”

Steve snatches up two of the blankets they’d used on Coulson, wraps one of them around his arm, and puts the other around Loki’s shoulders. “Lean on me,” he says firmly, and Loki evidently knows how stubborn he can be when he’s trying to help, because he finally gives in and takes Steve’s arm. Steve winces when he puts his other arm around Loki—the cold must be strong even through the thick fabric—but he doesn’t retreat, and carefully leads a seemingly exhausted Norse god toward the door.

At the threshold, though, Loki pulls back. “Wait,” he says. “Romanoff. I still need—”

With Steve’s help, he turns back until he can meet Natasha’s eyes. His smile is weary, shaky, and Steve’s right: He does look ready to pass out.

“I swore,” he says. “I have done… everything within my power… to save his life.” He falters, pausing to draw breath. “Do you hold my vow fulfilled?”

She holds his gaze for a long moment. “I’ll let you know in the morning.”

His smile widens, even as his eyes fall to half-mast. “You are mine, now,” he says. “Steve will… tell you… your rights. Later. And… never call me… ‘bastard’… again.”

Then he turns, and Steve helps him stumble through the doorway and down the hall.

Watching them go, Natasha finds she can’t parse what just happened. It’s beyond her. If Steve were under Loki’s control, then he wouldn’t have argued with him, wouldn’t have forced him to accept help that he didn’t seem to want, or wouldn’t let himself accept. But if not, then what is this? Stockholm Syndrome? Why does Steve care so much about Loki’s welfare?

Clint bumps her shoulder, gently. “Come on, Nat. Let’s get you washed up. I’ll get you a bathrobe for the moment; he’ll get you some better choices once you settle in.”

It’s only then that she realizes how much blood is all over her clothes.

* * *

She falls asleep in clean clothes in her new room, too exhausted to keep up any sort of defense.

When she wakes, she finds that Clint has been keeping watch over her, just like the old days. It makes her heart hurt.

But Coulson wakes up, eventually, in need of physical therapy but nothing particularly dire. And when given the option of being returned to the battlefield with no memory of what happened in the tower, or staying with Natasha and Clint, he barely hesitates.

His collar is a slim band of leather, striped diagonally in black and white. It suits him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:** This is a lengthy and detailed surgery scene. Blood gets mentioned throughout, as do a variety of medical techniques. Nobody dies, though of course I ramp up the drama.
> 
> The technique of [lowering body temperature](https://aeon.co/essays/how-freezing-patients-could-save-lives-and-even-reverse-death) to a few degrees above freezing in order to operate on a patient with critical blood loss is actually a thing, though of course most hospitals don't have access to a frost giant capable of manipulating temperature directly.
> 
> The narrator (Natasha) is in shock through most of this, and has a panic attack.
> 
> Mind control gets discussed. Mercy killing gets a mention, of the "better dead than brainwashed enemy" idea.
> 
> * * *
> 
> I'm way behind on my [Typo-Spotter Reward Drabbles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11828004) (well, by which I mean, I have one drabble to write, and have been putting it off for like over a year), and still undecided if I should keep fandoms separate for that, but **tilla123** has earned a Reward Drabble!
> 
> My original offer for the _Person of Interest_ fandom was to pick a character other than the main eight or so (I listed them) and then to give me a prompt of an emotion and one or two other details (location, prop, goal, etc.), and I'd write a Drabble (100 words exactly) for that prompt.
> 
> Now, I can't really do a minor character challenge for the MCU/Loki fandom, in part because I haven't seen all the films (and have way too much information to keep track of as-is), but let's call it: _Give me a character pairing where they've never appeared in the same film together, plus a point of commonality, an emotion, and one or two other details_. And I'll write you a Drabble.
> 
> So tilla, just let me know what you'd like for your reward!


	5. Induction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Tony Stark,” Steve begins, “by choosing to put on the collar, you have surrendered yourself into the care of Loki. As such—”_
> 
> _“What, no title?” Tony can’t help but snipe. “No ‘Emperor Loki’ or ‘Supreme Planetary Overlord’?” He glances over at Loki and raises an eyebrow. “I thought you were all about the pomp and circumstance.”_
> 
> _“Well, I haven’t won _yet_,” Loki returns amiably. “That _would_ be a bit presumptuous of me.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've noticed that the chapter breaks in this piece are much longer than my norm -- well over ten pages, depending on the chapter. I hope this is working well with the story and not stretching too long for the readers; it's just how it's turning out.
> 
> Today I've had a couple of ocular migraines (weird flashy colors in my eyes -- no pain or anything, it's just a bit freaky), which has made me have to rest my eyes more than normal, and has made it a bit difficult to focus on what I'm doing. I'm not going to put as much time into proofreading as I usually do, so I'll just have to hope that no major typos slipped by me (or content warnings, for that matter). Please let me know if you spot any.

When Tony finally comes back to himself, he’s lying with his head pillowed on something soft, and he feels entirely wrung out, almost past caring.

There’s a hand gently stroking his hair, and when he opens his eyes, his vision is taken up with ginger—the color of safety, a connection he’s been missing for four long, painful years.

Any other details get lost through the tears that spring up in his eyes.

“You back with us?” Pepper murmurs, encouragingly.

Oh, how he’s missed that voice.

He swallows, forcing himself to remember that she’s under Loki’s control now. That he can’t trust her like he used to, that he has to keep his guard up, for her sake as well as his own. It’s just that her presence, her touch, the _smell_ of her… the sudden awareness that she’s got his head in her lap… it’s overwhelming, well beyond everything else that has overwhelmed him in the past few days.

Weakly, he reaches up, and she catches his hand in hers, giving it a comforting squeeze. “You’re all right,” she says, and he thinks he can make out her smile, far above him. “It’s going to be all right.”

His lips tremble. “I missed you,” he manages.

That’s all he can manage, for a while. Pepper doesn’t seem to mind, or try to rush him.

“…Peter?” he asks, once he’s able to process thoughts again.

“Helping Bruce in the lab,” Pepper answers. “That boy’s a genius, you know. I can see why you like him. And also why you guys fought so much.”

“He’s…” Tony’s eyes tear up again. “He’s okay?”

“He’s _fine_,” Pepper assures him, and he hears her smile more than sees it. Then her voice sobers a little: “He’s been worried about you.”

That thought makes his chin tremble again, but he chokes back the sobs, aware that his face is making all sorts of contortions as he does. Focus on something else, something besides—

Bruce. In the lab. And Peter had said—“Bruce… Banner?”

“Mmm-hmm. Scientist, medic… not so big and green anymore.”

“And… Cap?”

“He’s here. Makes sure we all get taken care of. You’ll get to see him soon enough; he’ll give a little speech to get you started.”

Tony can’t help but laugh at that one. Even in the clutches of the alien menace who’s been slowly taking over the world, Steve has found a way to give speeches.

Tony’s first encounter with Steve Rogers had filled him with a sea of mixed emotions. To have grown up jealous of a guy who’d died a quarter century before you were born, and then to unexpectedly find him on your team? Ripped out of his timeline, at that, and fifteen years your junior?

And how does a man who’s lived through the horrors of war—the one with the Nazis and the Holocaust, the biggest war that hadn’t involved giant space whales—emerge somehow _less_ jaded than the playboy philanthropist whose only connection to war was providing the weapons and spending a few months held captive by terrorists?

They’d clashed, of course they had—how could a loyal, traditional idealist like Steve see eye to eye with a skeptical, iconoclastic cynic like Tony? But the war left no time for personality conflicts, and they’d quickly developed a sort of synergy, one’s strengths and insight covering the other’s weak points and blind spots.

And in the down time, they’d gotten to be friends… and then something almost like brothers. They’d shared stories of childhood, of ordeals they’d gone through, friends they’d lost. They’d talked about Howard, what he had meant to each of them, how much they missed him. They’d shared hopes for the world after the war was won.

Neither had been ready to consider what might happen if they lost.

“Feel like getting up yet?” Pepper prods, gently.

It’s not high on his list, no, not when she’s still stroking his hair and he can put off dealing with the reality of his new situation for just a little while longer, put off knowing… whatever Loki has in store for him. So he mumbles an objection, like back when she’d be dealing with his hangover instead of a mental breakdown or… whatever this is. Being here.

But she’s not going to let him get away with pretending to be incapacitated, not when there’s work to be done. She never has; that’s part of why he needs her.

Needed her. In her absence, he’s had to re-learn self-sufficiency.

“Well, you can either get up, or we can have Bruce out here to look you over,” Pepper says brightly. “Let me know your preference; you’ve got fifteen seconds.”

And there she is, that cheeky lady who knows how to push all of his buttons, and only ever did it for the good of him or their company. He’d let her get so close that she must have a _catalog_ of ways that she could hurt him, and yet she never has, even when he’d given her every reason to try. But now she's in a golden-orange collar, and all that knowledge—along with all her energy, wisdom, and discernment—has been turned to Loki’s side.

_Pepper, darling, remind me—how many times?_

_At least three_.

They’d been laying bets on Tony’s behavior. That’s what that was, right?

_I do believe I owe you dinner_.

It’s only the memory of being bound at Loki’s feet, struggling against the collar’s restrictions, that lets Tony keep a lid on his temper; he’s never going to survive this (let alone free his friends) if he keeps fixating on _what has already happened_, instead of what needs to happen next.

Sighing, he pushes himself up, supported by Pepper’s hand on his back, and blinks until he’s able to look around.

The walls are dark grey-green stone—marble? slate?—inlaid with various other types of stone, even some gems, forming intricate designs and accents. But the floors are tatami, which matches the sliding shouji doors—a touch of elegance and impermanence that reminds him a bit of a bath house. The only door that breaks pattern is the one they came through, a flat wooden slab with no handle.

They’re… nowhere near the elevator shaft. It’s just an office hub, with various doors and short hallways leading off in every direction. Which means… Loki’s portals are either placed to be more pragmatic (less walking), or they’re meant to deliberately confuse people about where they go. It’s a small point to ponder, but he stores it away, glad to be getting at least a _little_ intel that he can work with. Gotta start somewhere, right?

“Not that I’m impatient,” Loki says, and Tony’s head whips around to see Loki sitting on the back of a chair that had been vacant a moment ago, “but at some point we _do_ need to get some calories in you. And I’d much prefer to get the, ah, ‘paperwork’ out of the way.”

“This damn collar isn’t enough ‘paperwork’ for you?”

“Welllll,” Loki drawls, “I should hate to disappoint the good Captain after he’s geared up for a speech.”

Biting back what he thinks of Loki being so familiar with _the good Captain_, Tony reminds himself, again, that everyone here is at Loki’s mercy. Meeting the godling’s gaze and trying not to glare, he says, “Fine. Get on with it.”

“Would you care to take a seat, then?” Loki asks, gesturing broadly at the various possibilities.

“The floor’s comfortable enough,” Tony returns, but then Pepper raises an eyebrow at him. “What? Tatami is made for kneeling.”

“And I know the state of your knees,” Pepper rejoins. “But if you’re just going to choose discomfort out of spite, that’s your choice.”

The assertion makes Tony feel particularly childish, but he doesn’t budge.

“Pepper, dear, you might as well leave him. He’ll come around when he wants to, and not before. Would you go ensure that dinner will be ready on time?”

“Of course,” Pepper says, rising, and Tony holds back the impulse to grab her wrist, cling to her arm so she’ll never leave his side again. He clenches his hands on the tatami until she’s out of reach, and then tries to slow his breathing back down to normal, ignoring Loki’s curious head tilt and knowing gaze.

Finally, Loki calls out, “Captain Rogers, if you would?”

A few quick footsteps—just waiting for his cue, apparently—and Steve is there before him, in a perfect parade rest: back straight, chin up, hands clasped behind him. Tony almost wants to strangle him, because it’s obvious that the six years that have been a living hell for Tony haven’t touched Steve at all. Not physically, at least; he still looks, what, twenty-five? Not worried, not haggard; solemn, yet not noticeably unhappy. The man could live through Armageddon and—

That’s not fair, is it? Who knows what Loki has been doing to him. Mind manipulation, almost certainly; might be some other magic as well. Tony might’ve been raised to be jealous of his dad’s old friend (who seemed to matter so much more than his dad’s new son), but it wasn’t right to lay any of that on Steve’s shoulders.

“Tony Stark,” Steve begins, “by choosing to put on the collar, you have surrendered yourself into the care of Loki. As such—”

“What, no title?” Tony can’t help but snipe. “No ‘Emperor Loki’ or ‘Supreme Planetary Overlord’?” He glances over at Loki and raises an eyebrow. “I thought you were all about the pomp and circumstance.”

“Well, I haven’t won _yet_,” Loki returns amiably. “That _would_ be a bit presumptuous of me.”

Tony narrows his eyes, then takes a breath and sighs it out again. “All right, go on.”

“As such,” continues Steve, “you are his prisoner and rightful spoils of war.”

“This is going to be one of those eminently formal ‘you are now screwed’ kinds of concession speeches, isn’t it?”

“You have been removed from further participation in the conflict,” Steve presses on, “and the captivity itself is not meant as a punishment, nor is it intended to harm you in any way.”

Tony wants to scoff at that, but then he remembers—

“Loki has given his word that his prisoners will be well treated—”

_Be gentle with him_.

“—by most of the standards of Midgard, but also, partly, by the standards of Asgard. I can attest—”

_You know I take the utmost care with my prizes_.

“Whoa. Cap. Back up.”

Steve frowns at him. “How far?”

“After the ‘can’t participate in conflict’ part.”

Concentration broken, it takes Steve a moment to find his place again. “The captivity itself is not meant as a punishment, nor is it intended to harm you in any way. Loki has given his word that his prisoners will be well treated—”

“Yeah, he told me that too. ‘That which belongs to me, concerns me.’ Boasted about taking us alive.” He frowns. “They blew up the Lowell Hotel, did you know that? Best place I ever slept that wasn’t in Africa or Fiji. We stayed there for weeks, back in the early stages of building this tower.”

Steve flusters for a moment. “Well, obviously it’s not like a hotel in here, but—”

“Maybe you’ve been away from the fight too long, Capsicle, but you seem to believe that Loki, temperamental Diva godling of Asgard, whose unearthly armies are _at this very moment_ ravaging the countryside and destroying all the nice landmarks, cares about the welfare of his prisoners.”

“He hasn’t mistreated us, Tony,” Steve says, exasperation finally showing, even in the way he slumps forward a little. “That’s what I’m trying to say. He sees to our needs—food, clothing, shelter, hygiene—”

“Right, doesn’t want naked slaves, I remember this part.”

“We’re not _slaves_,” Steve protests, a tinge of revulsion to his voice. “If you’d just—”

“Are we his _pets_, then?”

“Tony, shut it,” Natasha says, walking in and sliding to the floor beside him.

“Did he give this speech when _you_ got here, Nat?”

“Yeah, and I let him get through it in one go. Stop torturing the man.”

“Oh, by all means, play on. Let’s get this charade over with.”

“You’re not helping, Stark.” Natasha sighs. “Look, even if you’re right, if the speech means nothing, what exactly would you be accomplishing by showing off like this? At best, you make the rest of us have to wait around a little longer for the ‘charade’ to be over with. At worst, you annoy our captor until something bad happens. And either way, you lose out on whatever intel you might catch from the speech itself. God, no wonder Fury didn’t trust you with the sensitive assignments.”

“All right, fine,” Tony says; it’s not like he doesn’t know that. Poking the hornet’s nest isn’t the wisest idea right now. “Sorry, Cap, old habits and all that. Play on.”

Steve pulls in a breath, and straightens up again, chest out. “Whether you believe it or not, Loki did give his word to treat us well. And I can attest that he has done so with me, over the past six years. He has pledged to treat us well _by the standards of Midgard_, for the most part, with a little bit based on the standards of Asgard. While you are in Loki’s care, you will be provided with adequate food, clothing, shelter, hygiene, and medical care.”

_I’ve had much to learn about caring for mortal prisoners… but no prisoner has died in my care_.

_The third convention at Geneva… your good captain pointed me in that direction_.

“Steve, are you really the one who taught him about the Geneva Conventions?”

Mouth open, Steve blinks. “Well… yeah. Right after I got here. He, um, he kinda read them overnight, decided that most of it made sense, and changed his protocols here to match.”

With a sidelong glance at Loki, who’s still sitting on the back of the chair, Tony asks, “So he’s… honestly trying to treat us humanely? As far as you can tell?”

“You think I don’t know propaganda?” Steve rejoins, a little hotly—and Tony blinks, recalling some of the tales Steve had shared with him, the times that Captain America had been used as a sideshow instead of a soldier. Given Steve’s preference for honesty and his feelings about manipulation, it wasn’t an experience he cared to repeat.

“Loki and I worked together to make a speech that we can both stand behind,” Steve continues. “It’s a promise of your treatment here, and I have never known him to fail at meeting that standard. In fact, the _only_ piece of it that I don’t agree with is the ‘spoils of war’ thing. But that’s how they do things in Asgard… a lot _worse_ than that, in fact. We’ve talked about it quite a bit over the years. The standards Loki has chosen to abide by seem to be a huge step up for a guy from that culture, and he’s even added in limitations on his own magic, which is something the Geneva Conventions never had to deal with. I’m not saying you should stop being skeptical, or pretend it’s a vacation and become some good-time Charlie, but… honestly, Tony, it could be a lot worse.”

_Could be torture_, Tony’s brain supplies, although that hasn’t been ruled out. The uncertainty of what’s to come is eating away at him.

And then he wonders whether Steve has ever been a prisoner of war before. Is that why he’s so calm about this, because he’s used to the idea? Tony’s barely holding himself together, while the Cap is treating this as old hat. Is that natural to Steve, or just because he’s been here so long… or is it something that Loki’s done to him?

While Tony tries to reason that out, the silence stretches until it’s awkward.

Finally, Natasha says, “Can we get on with it already? I just got done with a workout and I’m starving.”

“Uh… right,” Steve says. He closes his eyes for a moment, and then goes straight back into speech mode: “While you are in Loki’s care, you will not be subject to any threat of death, harm, torture, humiliation, deprivation, or mind control, nor is there to be any violence in this tower. The collars are a step to prevent such violence, using minimally necessary force.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen your ‘minimally necessary force’,” Tony growls under his breath. Natasha pokes him lightly with her elbow on the arm. “Hey!” he cries out. “She poked me with her elbow! That’s violence, right? Why didn’t _her_ collar go off?”

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. “Tony—”

“No, that’s a fair question,” Natasha says. “The collars respond based on perceived threats and intentions. We’re allowed a minimal amount of tussling and accidental harm and such without setting them off. Lethal intentions, serious threats, deliberately painful threats, and intentions against autonomy are treated with different types of containment.”

“Um, autonomy what now?”

“Trying to force someone to move when they don’t want to move. Or keep them from moving when they do want to move. Loki added that to the collars after we found ways to use force that weren’t harmful or painful. Oh, and the collars are mostly inactive in the gym, so we can actually spar and train and exercise to our own limits, even if that means a bit of pain and injury.”

“You’ve got a gym.”

“Oh, yeah,” Natasha says with a grin. “Huge one. Best I’ve ever had.”

When there’s enough of a pause for Steve to start up again, he continues. “The third convention at Geneva provided standards for prisoners that include the freedom to contact loved ones and assure them of your survival. However, Loki has judged this to reduce the effectiveness of his tactics; therefore, your loved ones will be notified of your survival only after the war has been concluded, or if such notification fits Loki’s plans. This is the primary deviation from the Geneva Convention.”

Before today, if someone had asked Tony to draft up a list of prisoner rights, he wouldn’t have thought to add something like ‘contacting loved ones’. Food, clothing, shelter, medical care, sure. Hygiene likely fell under medical care—if you couldn’t keep yourself clean, you’d suffer from rashes, spread disease. A feeling of comfort and safety, that was a nice touch.

But phone calls? Letters home? Is that really a _right_ ?

The war’s been on for eight years now, and Tony has known nothing but attrition as it eats away at resources and land and time and… and allies. Eight years, he’s been watching people disappear, or die before his eyes, and it’s been corroding his mental health… and all this time Loki has been quietly collecting them, and preventing anyone from knowing that they’re alive.

Happy’s gonna think he’s dead.

Peter’s aunt has mourned Peter for a year, and still doesn’t know that he’s fine. But at least Tony hadn’t left her _wondering_; he’d found a way to get the message to her. He’d owed Peter that much. At some point in the future, maybe she’ll find out that he’s still alive.

Pepper… Pepper’s got someone, right? Someone besides _him_? She must have told him at some point, someone she sends money to, or gifts, but he can’t remember and he can’t recall if he ever made any effort to even find her family to let them know that she’d been killed. Was that after the infogrid went down? Everything surrounding Pepper’s death is hazy, like a photo that’s zoomed in so precisely that the most minute detail of the central image is shown in perfect clarity while the background fades away into patches and fuzz.

Her horror as she fell—he could have drawn that expression from memory, painted it in living color right down to the eyelashes, the shape of her mouth.

That memory has haunted him for four goddamn years, and all because Loki was using _uncertainty_ as a _psychological weapon_.

Forget Loki’s attempt to be the kindest Asgardian jailer: If anything’s right with the world, Loki’s death will come at Tony’s hands.

“Mind control,” Steve is saying, “and forced some soldiers of Earth to assist him—”

“Wait, stop, back up again.”

“Tony—” Natasha says tiredly.

“I’m not gonna quibble, I just… I kinda zoned out there. Sorry.”

Sighing, Natasha rolls onto her back at his feet, hands folded at her waist. “What’s the last part you remember?”

“The thing about not being able to call home.”

Steve frowns. “Okay, um… that’s the primary deviation from Geneva Convention.”

“Yeah, that part. I got that.”

“At the beginning of his campaign, Loki made use of mind control, and forced some—”

“Is Fury here somewhere?”

“He’s probably still in the kitchens,” Natasha replies. “Dinner’s on as soon as we’re done here.”

“And Barton?”

“Look, do you want a head count?”

“I don’t need a—actually, yes. That would be nice. Who all’s here?”

Natasha ticks them off on her fingers. “Nick, Clint, Bruce, Steve, Coulson—”

“Coulson’s alive, then.”

“I’m not counting _zombies_, Stark.”

“Right, right. Go on.”

“Bucky, Rhodey, Peter—”

Tony chokes. “Rhodey’s here too??”

“Yup. He showed up to greet you, but you were kinda out of it at the time, so it seemed best to wait.”

“…Ah,” Tony gets out.

“And then there’s Stephen, Pepper, you, and me. And Loki, though he’s not here all the time. Obviously.”

Fury and Barton, Bruce and Steve, Natasha and Coulson… Pepper and Rhodey…

“Which Stephen?”

“Doctor Strange.”

“Ah, right.” Tony pushes back thoughts of the last time he’d seen Strange alive. “Who’s Bucky?”

“I don’t think you’ve met him.”

“Old friend,” Steve says. “One of the best guys I’ve ever known.”

Pausing, Tony considers that for a moment. Steve never had much chance to make friends during the invasion, and someone he met in captivity wouldn’t be an ‘old friend’. So: “He get frozen too?”

“Sort of. Long story, and not mine to tell. You’ll get to meet him at dinner.”

“Which starts after the speech,” Natasha adds pointedly.

“Right. ‘Paperwork’.” Tony waves a hand at Steve.

Rolling his eyes up and to the side, Steve hunts down his place again.

“Mind control,” Natasha prompts him.

“Right. Um… Loki did use mind control to make some of our soldiers help him, but… he’s decided that this is unethical, and pledged not to use mind-controlled soldiers as a tactic in this war.”

“More specifically,” Loki clarifies, bouncing down into the seat as though he’s just joining the conversation, “in accordance with the principle that a prisoner must not be forced to turn on his own people, I won’t use mind control to turn a defender of Midgard into one of my own defenders, or into a weapon used to attack Midgard or those defending Midgard. However, I do try to minimize casualties, and mind control can still be an effective nonlethal tactic to conclude an encounter. Those I capture in such a way, I release as soon as feasible, rather than make use of them.”

“Unlike us.”

“Every prisoner in this building surrendered of his or her own free will, and accepted the collar in preference to other options. No one is here because of the scepter, or any other form of mind control.”

“Except for Barton and Fury.”

Steve shakes his head. “Commander Fury and Agent Barton were given the option to go free, and both refused. They can attest to being freed from the scepter’s control.”

_Which could mean they’re just moles_, Tony doesn’t say.

“They’re too valuable to keep out of the field,” Natasha says, as if reading his mind. “I’m sure Loki’s skilled at the long con, but using two of his best assets to guard a handful of well-contained prisoners would be absurdly inefficient.”

Tony tries to find angles around that one, but he can’t come up with anything plausible. Perhaps they could be set up as sleeper agents in case the invasion fell, or if the prisoners got rescued, but… six years ago? And the plan itself seems like the longest of long shots. Rescue seems unlikely, and even if they did manage to escape, no one would trust Loki’s earliest victims with sensitive projects, not for years. Besides, the invasion _isn’t_ failing, so what would be the point?

“All right, fine,” Tony says, finally. “So we’re all here willingly. Of a sort. I guess I can buy into that for the moment. What’s next?”

“That, um… that’s the last of my speech,” Steve says, almost sheepishly. “Just letting you know what to expect here, y’know? Make you feel a little safer.”

“Indeed,” Loki says. “Thank you, Captain.” He turns to face Tony. “Now, Stark, have you any questions that didn’t get covered by your constant interruptions?”

Suddenly weary, Tony bows his head into his hands. “Think I got a handle on the rights. Might as well get to the rules.”

“Rules?” Loki asks, brow slightly furrowed.

“Laws, guidelines, prohibitions. Whatever you call them. Things we’re not allowed to do.”

“There aren’t any rules,” Steve says.

“…What?”

“I didn’t set up any rules,” Loki says. “There’s no need. Where certain types of behavior are unacceptable, I have taken steps to make them impossible. For example, the collars will not allow you to harm me or any other inhabitant of this tower. Doctor Strange’s shackles prevent him from accessing his magical abilities. He has, of course, been attempting to remove them, as I imagine you’ll try with the collars as well; the tools in the lab are at your disposal. By the way,” he adds, “the collars are not designed to explode.”

“That’s a very specific denial,” Tony notes, narrowing his eyes at Loki.

“I’ve, er, been showing him some movies,” Steve says. “He may have picked up some odd ideas about how we do things down here.”

“And you are free to explore. Without my assistance, you cannot get out of your assigned floors, but anywhere you are physically capable of going—”

“And if we try to escape?”

“Ah, yes; Captain, you missed a phrase.”

“Sorry,” Steve says with a sigh. “It was a little hard to concentrate. Um…” His face scrunches up, eyes closed, as his head falls backwards for a moment. “Right. It is human nature to want to escape captivity, and several countries recognize this in their criminal code, where escaping from prison is not a crime in and of itself. Loki likewise recognizes this motivation, and has pledged not to answer such attempts with any sort of penalty.”

Loki grins. “You will, of course, find it quite difficult to breach my perimeter, but you are welcome to try; Colonel Fury does so regularly.”

“So, what, we’re free-range now? All rights, no responsibilities? No daily inspections, no prison labor?”

“You may labor as you choose,” Loki says, “to amuse yourself, or to make this habitation more suitable for the group, or to assist each other in various ways. Doctor Strange and Doctor Banner have both chosen to assist in medical care; Captain Rogers has chosen to give of his own blood to save those in need. Lady Potts has taken it upon herself to organize the maintenance tasks—cooking and cleaning and such—so that everyone contributes in some way.”

“What happened to the ‘slaves’ thing? You said you’d take good care of us so that we wouldn’t be too weak to work.”

“No.” With one fluid movement, Loki gets to his feet. “I said that’s what happens in Asgard. War thralls are a typical benefit of victory. For the most part, they act in accordance with their new status.”

Then, calmly, he walks toward Tony, stopping within arm’s reach but barely. “You are under my roof and under my care,” he continues, looking down at him with something like affection, “but I do not expect you to simply follow my commands without good reason. And, as Captain Rogers pointed out, I will not _threaten_ you into compliance. For now, I make no demands.”

“For now,” Tony notes.

“Yes. Tonight, we’ll share a meal. Then, for a few days, I’ll be overseeing the war efforts, and you’ll have a chance to acclimate to your new home. When I return… well.” He spreads his arms. “I finally have the full collection: a dozen heroes who have stood against me. The war in this part of the world is winding to a close, and it’s time to offer all of you a deal to consider. It will be up to you if you accept it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:** I wouldn't call it a panic attack, but Tony is kinda drifting for the first bit of this chapter, and it takes him a bit to pull himself together.
> 
> Discussion of mind control, slavery, psychological manipulation, sleeper agents.


	6. Pepper (flashback)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Did you expect m-me to simply surrender?”_
> 
> _“With your allies incapacitated, your armor gone? I confess the thought had crossed my mind. Unlike your compatriots, I wasn’t expecting further resistance from you once I’d cracked you out of your shell.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, most jets are in the sky, so "skyjet" is an inherently silly term. But I made it by some analogy to "Jet Ski," and it's better than any alternative that came to mind. I don't think "chariot" really has the right feel for it, anyway. (Also, I like cramming small words together to make new units of meaning, and language is messy enough that we come up with "not quite semantically accurate" terms all the time. I imagine someone on the team called it that one time, and everyone laughed at him, and then they started using the term as an in-joke until it became the way they thought of the Chitauri chariot anyway.)
> 
> Also, a reminder that I haven't seen the second and third _Iron Man_ films, but that the third isn't part of this fic's continuity anyway, and Pepper does not have any superpowers here (though Tony did make a suit for her to use in combat).
> 
> Sensitive readers, don't forget to check the End Note for content warnings applying to this chapter. For one thing, this fight gets a bit brutal.

Pepper had never wanted to be part of the battle, but when war comes straight to your home, you don’t really get a choice. Fight back or surrender: It wasn’t a hard decision, not when Tony was at her side. Not when Tony was going to fight regardless. As the war got more desperate, she’d figured that if they were going to die, at least they’d die together.

She’d been wrong, and now Tony’s going to watch her die, and it’s going to **_kill_** him. Not just because he’d lost yet another loved one, not just because he’d let her down one more time, or let her join the war effort to begin with. Not just because he’d designed, built, and given her the very armor that allowed her to fight on the front lines.

It’s going to kill him because he’s the only reason that she’s out here. He tricked her into holding this position, half a continent away from where he’d gone, from where he’d thought that Loki would strike next; she’d realized it too late to do much other than fume. Another chivalrous attempt to save her life, as though he has the right to risk his life and she isn’t allowed to do the same.

_I have to protect the one thing that I can’t live without. That’s you_.

And then Loki had shown up where they least expected it.

By some miracle, Stephen had gotten here in time to give her some support. And Tony’s spare suit kept Loki (mostly) distracted, letting Pepper get in some good shots that, unfortunately, didn’t phase him, let alone take out his Chitauri skyjet.

But Loki must have gotten tired of battling another magic-user, because he’s just pinned Stephen to the skyscraper with some sort of purple goo; it’s over his mouth and nose, and he’s struggling, eyes wide and desperate, but she doesn’t know how to help him because Loki won’t let her get close enough to do anything. What is she supposed to do, shoot it off his face?

As Stephen falls unconscious (she hopes it’s just unconscious), Pepper sends off another volley of missiles, but Loki turns—manic grin on his face—and waves his hand, and the missiles turn into… dandelion fluff?

Then she feels something give

and her suit

falls

to

pieces

as the world falls out from under her.

Reflexively, she looks up into Tony’s expressionless faceplate, knowing that there’s panic on her face. As he’s reaching for her, she mouths ‘I love you,’ just in case this really is the end. He’s never failed to catch her, and she knows that, she trusts him, but that doesn’t stop the terror that courses through her like ice.

He’s going to catch her. He’s going to—

—and then the lights fade from the eyes of his faceplate

and his armor’s in freefall right above her.

Forty stories high, and bare seconds before she’ll hit the ground. Even if she had the time to turn over, she wouldn’t want to see her death coming, not like this, a few heartbeats and a lifetime away. Pepper Potts, one more casualty, splattered across the broken pavement after fighting a meaningless battle.

Four years, the war has raged, and she’s been part of it for a little over three. Has she made a difference at all? Maybe it’s enough that she kept Tony going during some of the darkest points of his life. Except… he’s about to go through worse, and she won’t be there to help him, not any more.

The wind whistles past her ears. The skyscraper is so far above her now; she must be close to the ground. She closes her eyes, not wanting to see when it—

_Yanked sideways_, she gasps, stomach lurching, and feels an arm around her waist, steady and strong as she’s pulled up face to face with—

Loki.

His grin is, as ever, unnerving, and she stiffens as he leans in close to her ear. “No armor,” he murmurs—and she can hear him with perfect clarity as though they weren’t racing through the sky at breathtaking speeds. “No weapons. No powers. Your ‘Sorcerer Supreme’ has been incapacitated, and the Man of Iron can no longer rescue you from my clutches. I am _most_ curious, Lady Potts,” he drawls, “to hear your battle plan. I don’t suppose you’d care to make this easy and surrender?”

His raised eyebrows and slight moue are almost curious, like he’s offering her an actual _choice_.

But what are her options right now? She’s on her own; there’s no cavalry in this part of the country, not within range; Stephen’s already down, and Tony’s nowhere near her. Without the suit, she’s got, what, fingernails and thumb jabs? Their best tech couldn’t even _scratch_ the guy.

A few Taekwondo classes have left her with some awareness of leverage, but even if she _could_ knock Loki off the chariot (and he may look thin, but SHIELD’s database said five hundred pounds and then some, and she’s barely over a hundred herself), would the fall even kill him? And even if it did, what’s her next move? They haven’t yet figured out if the driver’s aware of anything other than basic evasion and orders, which means he _probably_ wouldn’t attack her, but he’s also not going to set her down nicely on some roof somewhere.

Still, if she could actually take Loki out? That might be worth the gamble.

Because the alternative is letting _him_ take _her_.

If he wanted her dead, she’d be dead; that’s pretty clear by now. So he wants something _from_ her. What’s his game plan? He knows she has no powers, so he probably wants information…

…or, more likely, a way to make Tony surrender, because Tony’s the bigger game. They would never have lasted this long without his ingenuity, and if Tony goes down, it might mean a quick end to this war.

Which means that letting Loki take her alive could be… well, a fate she might not be willing to live with. She already knows what happened to Agent Barton and Nick Fury, and just because Loki doesn’t have the scepter right now doesn’t mean he can’t pull it out of thin air at a moment’s notice.

Of course… here she is in his arms, and he hasn’t tried to use it on her _yet_. Which might mean… something. Possibly a slight advantage, for the moment, but she has no idea what it implies or how to capitalize on it.

But with her options this narrow…

Loki quietly watches her, seemingly waiting for her response.

_I don’t suppose you’d like to make this easy and surrender?_

As the skyjet spirals up around the skyscrapers, gaining height, she spots the purple goo pinning Stephen to the wall. He’s still out of it (if not worse), and she imagines grabbing a handful of the goo and slapping it across Loki’s face, potentially blocking some of his powers, maybe even knocking him out. But, of course, they’re not going anywhere near her teammate.

Still, the mental image of leaning over to grab that goo has sparked a… possibility. Loki’s holding onto her waist with one arm, his other clutching the skyjet. There’s not a lot of room on these things, and Tony’s pointed out to her before that their design is easy to off-balance (a trait he’s already used in combat a couple of times). And it’s circling close to some of the remnants of what used to be decorative architecture, now fallen over and jutting out painfully into the sky.

And Loki does weigh a lot, for such a skinny twerp….

_One shot, Pepp_, she tells herself, and throws herself violently to the side, twisting out of Loki’s grasp.

The rest happens in seconds: Loki reaching out and grabbing her wrist, his eyes wide with shock (and unexpected… fear?); his weight and hers causing the skyjet to take a hard right in mid-air, directly into a piece of mangled steel; the jet and Loki hitting hard, a high-speed collision, an explosion.

Pepper’s timing puts her just underneath, avoiding most of the damage. The explosion’s close enough to deafen her, and luckily she’s turned away, because the shrapnel burns hot on the back of her neck and legs, and then her forearm—the one still in Loki’s grasp—snaps, as her body flies forward and her wrist comes to a brief but sudden halt.

If she screams, she doesn’t hear it through the ringing in her ears.

And then she’s in freefall again, and through her tears she can make out Loki, falling in a shower of sparks and shards of steel. He’s slightly above her, but limp, unconscious, and if he can only stay that way for a few seconds, then _maybe_—

—but he’s shaking it off almost instantly, and looking around wildly, spotting her. She can’t help but focus on his eyes, wide with _fear_. It can’t be fear for himself, can it? Even a few seconds gives him enough time to pull up that magical shield of his that keeps the fall damage from even breaking his stride.

Which is, of course, what he’s weaving now, the green lights around his hands, his gaze fixed on her and intense. And it burns her that she’s dying this way—not even doing any serious damage to him—but there was never any—

Blinking, Pepper sees the sky above her, feels the cracked pavement underneath. Her head’s still stuffed with cotton wool, all the sounds muffled. Hot waves of pain radiate up from her arm, and the back of her neck feels wet, might be bleeding, but…

…why isn’t she dead?

Gingerly, she pushes herself up and looks around, momentarily bewildered. She’s… not uninjured, no, but… how did she survive the—

Then she spots Loki, and her stomach turns over.

His arm is mangled, twisted up under him and bent in the wrong places. Blood seeps out across the pavement, soaking through his cape. His helmet was thrown clear; his eyes are closed, face slack. For a long moment, she stares, wondering if she actually _did_ kill him—but then she notices the slight rise and fall of his chest.

Why didn’t his shield work? Was he not able to cast it in time?

Part of her—and she admits it’s not the most noble part—is darkly pleased to have done more damage to Loki with one maneuver than Tony has managed in years, even with all of his tech. Most of her, though, finds the carnage horrifying, and a little part of her is fighting down the urge to throw up.

The back of her neck hurts, and she’s sure that’s blood soaking into her collar. With her good hand, she feels along—jerks away when her fingers touch hot metal. There’s blood on her fingertips. Her right leg feels oddly warm, and when she tries to move it, a fresh jolt of burning pain makes her gasp—something wrong with her tendon.

She won’t be walking out of here.

Still… why isn’t she _more_ injured? And Loki—

_Loki_—!

_He cast the shield on_ **_her_**.

That can’t be right.

But… what else fits the facts? She couldn’t possibly survive a fall that knocked out an Asgardian god. Did the explosion hurt him more than she expected? But he was awake and active during the fall. Did killing the Chitauri somehow harm Loki as well? But they’ve killed hundreds of the invaders, and Loki’s never even flinched.

But.

Why would he save her life?

Before she can come up with any useful theories, Loki begins to stir. Despite herself, Pepper feels oddly relieved as he pushes himself upright, groaning. His hands slip a little in the blood, and he seems dazed.

Even without the pain, hiding isn’t an option; she’s well within his field of vision. If she can’t flee and can’t fight, that leaves… words.

At least her hearing’s coming back. That could’ve made things difficult.

She’s not fool enough to think that she can manipulate the guy, not on any significant scale. Nothing useful to bargain with (nothing she’d want him to have), and she doubts he’d respond to polite requests or even begging, which leaves… information gathering, against the possibility that she’ll get rescued. Stay alive, get what info she can, break free, find Tony. She can do that much.

Her eyes may sting from sweat and her heart may be beating like a rabbit’s as Loki’s eyes focus in on her, but she can do that much.

“You’re hurt,” he slurs, still blinking as though his eyes haven’t quite learned how to focus again. “I-I did not intend…”

She swallows, because his voice suddenly sounds so _young_. Younger than Tony, by decades, and almost a little… lost.

“You’re hurt worse,” she counters, as he staggers to his feet, ignoring his mangled arm to limp toward her and collapse to his knees at her side.

“I will heal,” he responds offhandedly, reaching out as if to touch her wrist but flinching back when she stiffens up (and bites her lip against the pain).

As she cradles her bad arm in her good one, noting how swollen it’s gotten, her head starts to spin; she blinks a bit, trying to clear it, but it doesn’t help. She kinda wants to lie down, but that seems… not yet. She’ll be fine.

Catching her gaze, Loki studies her, his bafflement teetering on the edge of anger. “You knew you might die; why would you…?”

“It could have worked,” she blurts out, then swallows, hoping she hasn’t just pushed him over that edge. “Would have been worth it, if you had died.”

His eyes grow wide, jaw slack with realization. “You… on purpose!” The laugh she startles from him is nothing like the laughs she’s heard from him before: bright and warm and open, and wholly pleased, leaving a broad grin on his face. “A life for a life, thinking to win the war… you brave, mad woman. I have _critically_ misjudged you.”

Raising her chin, she stares Loki down. “Did you expect m-me to simply surrender?”

“With your allies incapacitated, your armor gone? I confess the thought _had_ crossed my mind. Unlike your compatriots, I wasn’t expecting any sort of melee combat from you once I’d cracked you out of your shell.”

Why does she feel so tense, so shaky? Just adrenaline? Her arms are trembling. _Shock_, she thinks somewhat distantly, vaguely recalling her first aid training.

Maybe she _ought_ to lie down.

She levels an icy glare at him instead, still running on that same adrenaline. “So you deliberately d-drove me to a point where you thought I wouldn’t fight back anymore.”

“Well, yes,” he says, coolly. “That was rather the point.”

“What, getting me to surrender?” She frowns. “Is that wh-why you protected me from the fall?”

That fear is back in his eyes, or at least the memory of it, before his expression smooths itself out again. “If I could handle this war without casualties,” he says, “I would. Unfortunately, the nature of conflict is not so genteel. I have done my best to pick my battles, and I would not see brave warriors die needlessly.”

“So you saved me,” Pepper says slowly, “even though it left you like that.” Without letting go of her own arm, she points a finger at his.

“As I said, that will heal,” he says, seemingly unconcerned. “You will not, or not so easily. Would you permit me to help you—to bind your wounds?” he asks, one-handedly undoing the clasps for his cape.

“Doesn’t that hurt?”

“Intensely,” he admits, frowning with distaste at the blood soaked through half of the cape. Biting it near the center, he tears off a thick strip from the cleaner side, then lays that on his thigh and tosses the rest away before starting to tear the thick strip into thinner ones. It seems to take him considerable effort, as though the fabric is much stronger than it looks.

As she watches him work, Pepper swallows, and notices how dry her mouth feels. That’s the shock, right? Low blood volume, and the body’s crying out for water to replace what’s lost. Only she’s not bleeding—not all that much—so it’s one of the other types of shock, and the body can’t tell the difference.

She’d take her pulse, but she’s only got one functional hand, and that one’s busy. But at least she doesn’t feel like her heart’s racing the way it was earlier. She’s still shaky, feeling more and more exhausted, but she’s… probably?… okay. For now. But then, it’s not like she’s got options for when that changes. Where’s the nearest allied camp, a couple hours away by air? What’s she going to do, crawl her way there across the ruins of this city? She’s not even sure she’d be able to find the place without the armor’s GPS to guide her.

Laying the last strip of fabric across his thigh, Loki turns to the side and spits fibers out of his mouth. Pepper holds back the urge to laugh at his expression.

But then he reaches for his other arm. As he pulls it forward, Pepper winces right along with him, and has to resist reaching out to try to help. (Even if she had two hands, she’s not sure she could help much with the first aid, not with a break that bad—nor, indeed, that he would welcome her assistance.) Instead of trying to bind it, though, he just carefully works the vambrace off, breathing harshly through his nose with every motion.

When finally it’s off, it’s Pepper who’s gone white—well, pale enough to make her freckles stand out, she’s sure of it, and feels on the verge of passing out—while Loki simply centers himself with a few breaths and lets his broken arm hang loose again. After inspecting the vambrace for blood, he holds it out like an offering. “It’ll do for a splint,” he says. “To keep it from getting worse.”

Staring at the decorations carved into the metal, she takes a deep breath, resigning herself to the reality that she’s about to be Loki’s prisoner. Even if she doesn’t pass out and even if he doesn’t force her to accompany him, there’s no other option at this point, other than to sit here for days waiting to see if Tony manages to send help.

But suddenly she needs to know, and the words come out sharp: “Will you t-try to use me to get at Tony?” She’s not entirely sure what to do if he confirms the idea.

Loki blinks at her. “I had considered it,” he replies evenly, “but it did not seem to be the most effective tactic. Do you wish my assurance that I will not use you against your mate?”

Recoiling slightly at the assumption that she and Tony are a couple, Pepper almost corrects him, but then thinks better of it. Asgard’s a bit old-fashioned in a lot of ways… perhaps the notion that she’s married will protect her.

“I can’t say that I’d trust you, but yes. I’ll t-take your word that you won’t use me against him.”

“Then you have it. I have no intention to use you, or knowledge of you, as a tactic against Tony Stark, nor will I seek such tactics in future.” He pauses, thoughtful. “In fact, I will not even let him know that I have you, not while the conflict between us is still in question and his actions could be swayed by that knowledge. This I swear, before the Norns.”

The reference flies over her head, but he seems particularly serious with that last part, and it’s likely all the assurance she’s going to get. Nodding, she holds out her broken arm, still cradled in her other hand.

Silence reigns for the next few minutes. Loki’s first move is to cradle her arm in his own hand, close his eyes, and _apparently suck all the heat out of her arm because_ **_holy damn_** _is that cold!_ Not frozen, she doesn’t think, but her trembles turn to earthquakes, and it takes her a panicked moment to realize that the pain has gone down significantly, turning to numbness instead.

She’s still sweaty. Sweaty and cold, at the same time.

“I need to check for bleeding,” Loki murmurs, and produces a knife, slicing deftly through her sleeve without even the hint of a scratch to her skin, even though she can’t seem to hold her arm still. With careful maneuvers, he checks her over while maintaining support, and then, satisfied, compares the size of her arm to the width of the vambrace.

Almost offhandedly, he _squeezes_ the metal, bending it into the right shape. It reminds Pepper of Tony’s first meeting with Thor—or, at least, his description of it—and how Thor had nearly ripped the armor right off him with only his bare hands.

Then, with care and patience, Loki works the vambrace onto her arm before packing the cut part of her sleeve into the gap and managing, with the little help she can give him, to tie it snugly in place with only the one hand.

By the end, Pepper’s shaky breaths have slowed to match pace with Loki’s, both of them focused on such a delicate and painful task. But at last the worst part is over, and Loki turns his attention to the back of her neck, moving around behind her and using one of the remaining strips to wipe away blood as he carefully removes bits of shrapnel.

“How d-did you get so ssskilled at ffffirst aid?” she asks, trying to hold still and wondering if she’s going to pass out while he’s trying to patch her up.

“A warrior who can’t bind his own wounds won’t survive many encounters,” he returns. “And each should be able to help his fallen shield-brothers, at least until they can return to the healers.”

Then his hand falters, just for a moment. When he continues, his voice is softer, more hesitant. “When I was… little, I ended up in the healers’ chambers on more than a few occasions. A consequence of having a boisterous older brother who was still growing into his own strength. When I had to stay there for any amount of time… well, I was an inquisitive boy, and easily bored. I realized early on that the healers didn’t have the patience for stupid questions, and so I tried to grasp enough from observation to make my questions interesting enough to answer. Thus, I learned.”

A moment later, he gets up and moves around to the front again. “You are still bleeding, but it is thankfully not too dire,” he says, and moves to examine her leg, knife in hand.

“I… I need to lie down,” Pepper murmurs, and Loki glances up at her just as she starts to fall backwards.

He darts in—so quick!—and supports her on the way down. Probably good that she didn’t, didn’t hit her head. The pavement’s uncomfortable, her back is not entirely happy with her, and the new position is putting pressure on her broken arm despite the splint, but she doesn’t feel quite so light-headed like this.

_Tony met Thor_, Pepper thinks, a little stupidly. _I never got to meet him_. They’d fought, in fact, those _boys_. Fought each other, and then fought Loki together, but… the prince had vanished, shortly after the invasion began.

Is Loki responsible for that? Is Thor still alive?

As Loki checks her over, she almost asks him, but then she hesitates. Maybe not the best time to bring up an issue that might anger him. He’s been so nice… after the battle and the attempted kidnapping and all.

Maybe Thor simply went back to Asgard, and—for whatever reason—hasn’t come back in four long years. Maybe the home of the gods is facing something worse than a little invasion.

Sudden cold spreads down her leg, making her shivers worse. “Your tendon has been nicked,” Loki says, “but the damage seems minor. It should heal over time if you avoid further stress at the point of injury. But I can’t find anything else wrong with you, and you’re…” He’s above her, blocking the sun, pressing fingers to the skin just in front of her ear. “You need medical care from someone who knows more than field dressing.”

“Medical…”

“I have a doctor at my base. Will you allow me to take you there?”

Hazily, Pepper tries to recall when Tony’s picking her up. “All right,” she says finally, though her voice sounds odd in her head. “But I need to get back to the tower before he starts. He needs to… he needs me to…”

There’s a wrenching pain before the world fades away.

* * *

Pepper comes to her senses to find Bruce Banner bandaging up her leg while explaining to Loki the concept of neurogenic shock.

Asgardians, it turns out, don’t have a comparable medical condition, or at least Loki has never heard of such a thing in a thousand years on battlefields and in healing rooms. Blood loss doesn’t incapacitate them nearly as fast as it does with humans, and Loki finds it bizarre to think of losing basic functionality due to emotional distress (once Bruce has managed to separate Acute Stress Syndrome from psychopathology).

“You react to extreme threats by _passing out?_ ” he asks, incredulous. “And your brain can’t tell the difference between actual threats and _emotions?_ ”

“Pretty much,” Bruce confirms. “Evolution’s weird that way.”

Still, after learning that his use of cold had exacerbated Pepper’s condition (as Bruce is replacing her heat packs with fresh ones, bundled under the warm blankets), Loki devotes a couple of days to studying the varieties of shock until he’s clear on the distinctions and the relevant physiology.

He also waits until Pepper is properly on her feet again (arm and leg still healing, along with some burns from the shrapnel) before presenting her with the choice of a collar—the alternative being magically induced amnesia, with relocation to a safe place far from the combat zones until the war comes to its conclusion.

Setting aside the fact that the thought of Loki playing with her brain gives her the willies, she can’t see any benefit from being set free, at least as far as the war effort is concerned. At least in Loki’s household she might get to know him better—information that might be vital, should she ever get loose—and even, possibly, find some way to sway him.

And her presence might be helpful or comforting to the other captives, including the long-thought-dead Bruce and Steve, as well as Stephen, who had icily declined Loki’s offer of amnesia but is not adjusting well to his new lack of magic. With his powers blocked, he’s forced to deal with the impaired functionality of his hands, and their first official meal as part of the group resulted in him storming out of the room.

When Pepper caught up to him, they retreated to his new room for a private conversation, and he revealed that Loki’s offer of amnesia hadn’t included restoring access to his magic. Admittedly, he hadn’t expected anything more lenient—you don’t let your enemies keep their weapons and just return to the front—but in Stephen’s case, it’s a deal that would get him killed.

“Setting aside the enemies who might attack me while I’m most vulnerable,” he murmured, “I cannot allow myself to get as disheartened as I was before my first encounter with the supernatural. Left like this”—he raised his shaking hands—“with no awareness of what I could do, how far I have come, with only the memory of what I have _lost_ ? There’s a very real possibility that I might kill myself, either directly or through my own arrogance and desperation.

“Here, though…” he mused, softly, “still aware of the potential, I might conceivably find a way to break through. And the pain is nothing; I’ve borne pain before. If it’s true that he won’t use us against our own people, then this is the most logical place for me to be right now.”

With all that in mind, Pepper elects to stay. Her collar is a fetching band of golden orange, the leather soft against her skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:** Pepper's in some state of shock through most of this chapter, due to her injuries and the adrenaline. I think she'd probably be less coherent than she is, but I wove the dialog long before I started weaving in the medical details, and I didn't care to make her significantly less awesome just because her body's shutting down. Among other symptoms, there's a brief mention of nausea, and multiple references to feeling dizzy or being ready to pass out.
> 
> The most graphic details are the broken bones, and they're a big part of this chapter, but even saying that, I don't think it all that horrible (especially since Loki, not Pepper, is the one with the truly mangled arm, while Pepper has a simple break that's swollen). There are some other medical issues, and a lot of blood.
> 
> I (very) briefly make it look like Pepper died. Multiple falls, with Pepper expecting them to kill her. Suffocation's in there as well, as is temporary hearing impairment from being too close to an explosion. Burning shrapnel. Pain.
> 
> The issue of suicidal depression gets raised a couple different ways, but pretty vaguely. Loki's scepter and the mind control get raised, briefly, as does magically induced amnesia.
> 
> Is "the villain grabbed me during combat" enough justification for Non-Consensual Touching? I mean, yeah, you could make a case for it, but combat in general is one long string of "I don't want this to happen" moments, and Loki pulling Pepper onto a Chitauri chariot is not even particularly sinister (also, it saves her life).
> 
> **Medical Details**
> 
> As usual, I did what I could to research the matter, but this proved particularly irritating as I tried to wrap my head around the correct details for the state of shock. Turns out that shock (medically) is blood not getting where it's supposed to go, which depowers the brain and leads to some other troubling symptoms. But shock (emotional) can trigger shock (medical)? As can intense pain. I got conflicting information as to which terms to use and even which symptoms to use, but I _think_ I pinned it down to Neurogenic Shock (so apparently intense pain, emotional distress, and injured spinal columns can all lead to the same set of symptoms as the body tries to deal with it).
> 
> Anyway, this is why Loki knows about shock in the Natasha chapter! Though I might need to adjust Doctor Strange's reaction to that knowledge. At some point I had to conclude that I didn't know enough about shock to be sure of the details, symptoms, or treatment, so I decided hey, it makes sense that Loki wouldn't know either, and so I tweaked the scenario to make that lack of knowledge fit right in.
> 
> So don't take my details as an instruction manual, but I hope they come across as realistic and that they're useful as a starting point for understanding the concept.
> 
> * * *
> 
> This'll be my last update of this fic for a while -- probably through to the new year, though I've said that about other projects that my Muse decided I should work on, so who knows? Anyway, I'm hoping to update my major Creepyfest pieces before the month is out, but that deadline's coming up fast, so we'll see how it goes!


	7. Settling In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Even here, he doesn’t allow himself to let his guard down, not really. Not even for movie night.”
> 
> Turning, Tony stares incredulously at his friend, mouth agape. “‘Movie night’?”
> 
> Steve’s awkward chuckle has layers of fondness to it. “I’ve been, uh, introducing him to the movies I grew up with. And we’re both catching up on seventy years of pop culture.”
> 
> “You’re sharing popcorn with the guy taking over the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right! Finally, an update after such a long hiatus. Has it really been since Halloween (not counting that new fic I opened, _Icy Diplomacy_)? Yikes.
> 
> But, my big November project has been coming along well -- see [this blog post](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/961696) for details on that and the many fics I'm working on -- and I'm back to writing fics, though I've no idea how many updates we'll see during December here. Anticipate at minimum a [Yearly Retrospective](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1234658) and perhaps one or two gift fics (one-shots aimed at specific individual readers). Probably not as many as last year; I'm getting kinda burned out in terms of trying to juggle way too much all at once.
> 
> ...I should record myself juggling again. Maybe I can pick up [Mills' Mess](https://youtu.be/UWqpTUsIH_I?t=21) this time.
> 
> Anyway, have an update!
> 
> **Content Warnings:** Nothing much. Tony's still in a bad state mentally/emotionally. There's the discussion of hunger strikes (and the implication of being forced to eat), as well as discussion of public nudity.

“Pepper’s just across the hall,” Steve says, gesturing at a door with a tasteful stripe of golden orange just below the middle. “You’re free to make other arrangements, but this room’s been set up as your private space. It’s got an office space, a small lab, a bathroom that’s bigger than one of the tenements I grew up in…”

Studying the wooden panels of his new door with its metallic red stripe, Tony tries not to imagine living here for the next six or eight years. Maybe he’ll get as calm about it as Steve clearly has, but he doesn’t find that likely.

Getting drunk enough to start being stupid again, that sounds like more his style. Steve’s used to adjusting to harsh conditions, but Tony doesn’t have the best history of dealing with restrictions and no-win scenarios.

“There’s a set of basic clothes in there; when you get a chance, you can confer with Loki to get something more to your style.”

Tony grins nastily over the roiling in his gut at the thought of trying to petition Loki for _anything_. “Wait, I remember how this goes. Daddy hands you a catalog and you circle all the neat things you’d like Santa to bring.”

Steve rubs the back of his neck, his grin more sheepish. “Not exactly. You talk about the kind you’d like—how it looks, feels, different styles or whatever, accessories—and then he scans you with magic, to get the size right. Then he acquires it for you. I don’t know if he uses magic to make it, or has an actual tailor somewhere, but—”

“He’s not gonna win me over with nice clothes,” Tony says pointedly. “I’ve been wearing bespoke suits since I was _four_. And custom shoes since before I could actually walk.” And Loki is, after all, the _reason_ that Tony’s wardrobe over the past several years has been ‘whatever I can scavenge’.

“Yeah, well, custom-tailored is new for me. Only thing ever made for me was my outfit, y’know? The stuff you pull off the rack isn’t exactly specced for a skinny kid _or_ a serum-enhanced super soldier.” He huffs out a breath. “Look, the point is, it’s comfortable, and all you have to do is ask.”

“I’ll be sure to do that,” Tony says, his grin not losing any of its bite.

Steve deflates a little. “Anyway, like I said, it’s your private space. None of us are allowed in there without your permission, and you can retreat into your space whenever and for however long you like.”

“Huh. Even if I decide to just live in there and never come out again?”

“Your call.” Steve shrugs. “If you don’t want us in there, we can’t enter. Except for an emergency; then Bruce or Strange can enter, or any of us if it’s severe enough. There’s an enchantment that keeps track of your vitals, so if you get injured in more than a superficial way, or if you get sick enough or stop breathing, it does alert us. Same if you go for three days without drinking, or five without eating.”

_Why so concerned with my welfare?_

_You’re my property. Spoils of war. That which belongs to me, concerns me_.

Tony pushes away any thought of the implications. “So it’s like JARVIS.”

“A little, yeah.”

“Magical nanny, keeping an eye on me. Fantastic. And no hunger strikes.”

“A hunger strike isn’t going to help anyone.”

“And you claim that I can stay in there for as long as I want… but if it’s more than five days at a stretch, Magical JARVIE calls in the social workers.”

“Only if you’re not taking care of yourself. As long as—”

“So can I stockpile food?”

Steve startles back a bit, and shakes his head. “You don’t need to. There’s a little kitchen space that refills supplies as you use them. Even takes simple requests. If you wanted to, you could stay in there indefinitely; Bruce used to avoid us for months at a time.” He presses his lips together. “Tony… I haven’t seen you in six years. And from what Rhodey tells me, you’ve been running on empty for a lot of that. Don’t be a recluse. Please.”

Unable to meet those earnest eyes again, Tony stares at the door, running his fingers over the wood. “Who introduced Loki to the wonders of Japanese architecture?”

“What?”

“The doors. Shouji doors… tatami mats…” Then, more to himself than to Steve, he muses, “Has it really been a decade since my last tea ceremony?”

He used to think a tea ceremony was a ridiculous waste of time, until Pepper convinced him to attend one. Trying to get his brain to shut off for ten minutes, to focus just on the here and now, had been an interesting challenge the first couple of times, and then he’d gotten hooked.

But the memories are all bound up around Pepper. What it had been like to know her, back when they were free, and life was a party, and she could pester him into trying new things. Back before the world went to Hell.

“I think that was Clint,” Steve answers uncertainly.

Wrenching himself back to the present, Tony clamps down on the memories and tucks them away in the back of his mind. He’s gotta keep it together, and wallowing in the past is just going to make him come undone.

“So how’s the magical enforcement thing work?” he asks brightly, pushing open the door to peer into his new quarters. “You can’t enter without my leave?”

“I physically cannot get through that door if you haven’t invited me in. It’s like an invisible barrier keeping me out.”

“But once you’re inside…?”

“If you tell me to leave, I’ve got one minute to make it outside, or it teleports me out to the hallway. If you want me out faster, you can repeat it three times, just _get out, get out, get out_. That’ll bypass the grace period, and it teleports me to _my_ room, not the hallway. Same if you’re in emotional distress when you say it the first time.”

“In case we’re _really_ having it out.”

“Yeah. The collars won’t let us physically hurt each other, or trap each other, but this is a measure to reduce emotional harm as well.”

“Enforced civility. Lovely.”

“If you don’t actually want to evict your guest, you can cancel it any time before the teleport triggers. Just say _you can stay_.”

“Good to know.”

“There’s, ah, an exception if the guest is using the toilet at the time—three minutes instead of one, the bathroom becomes soundproofed, and if it triggers the teleport while the guest is still on the toilet or partially disrobed, it sends him to his own bathroom instead of the hallway.”

Tony squints. “I do _not_ want to know how that exception came about.”

“Yeah, you don’t.” Steve’s grin is pained; he rubs a hand over his face. “Oh, and I can’t take anything you own out of the room without your permission. Clothes, supplies, inventions, any physical object that you consider to be yours can’t leave your room if you don’t want it to. If I’m handling your property and you tell me to stop, or put it down, anything like that, I’ve got ten seconds to comply or it teleports me to the hallway, naked. Minus any body hair. Loki really has a thing about messing with someone’s possessions.”

Tony mulls that one over. “Where do your clothes go?”

“Back to my room, in the hamper. Anything I was carrying that wasn’t yours ends up on my bed. Even things that had been in my pockets.”

“How many times has this happened?”

“Oh, Fury had us testing out the possibilities for tactical reasons; we all went hairless for a week or so.”

“Because teleporting the things you’re carrying might be useful.” Obvious enough.

“Right. Fury’s established a blanket no-touching rule, so if you touch or try to pick up any item in _his_ room, it triggers the teleport. No grace period.”

“Only in his room, though?”

“Yeah, there’s no effect outside the guest quarters. I think that’s to keep us from both claiming the same object. The collars don’t interfere with playing keep-away, either.”

Tony frowns. “Keep-away? Was that Peter’s idea?”

“Nah, this was years ago. Fury had us systematically testing out the collars—the kind of behavior they will and won’t allow. Loki’s updated it a couple times to account for behavior that caused unexpected problems.”

“Like blocking someone in.”

“That, yeah. The collars relax a bit in the gym, or else you couldn’t do holds and stuff—oh, and you can teleport from the gym to the hallway outside the gym just by saying ‘red’. Still works even if you’re being choked.”

Tony absorbs that one. “So that you can’t be trapped in the gym, or hurt more than you want to be.”

“Yeah.”

“Huh. Who taught him safe words?”

“Nat,” Steve says with a chuckle. “The first time he tried to take it easy on her, for being mortal.”

“Um, context?”

“Oh, we spar with him, now and then. Sometimes we’ll go one-on-one, but he could easily handle half a dozen of us in hand-to-hand, so it’s usually Clint and Nat, Bucky and me, all at once. We’re allowed to go all-out lethal, and yet we can barely land a blow. First person to actually draw blood gets to choose the dinner menu for the week.”

So they’re learning how Loki fights, how to take him down. And while their captor is certainly getting the same sort of information on _their_ styles, he’s already proven that he doesn’t need it, so the balance of information flow is in their favor. Tony makes an appreciative moue.

“Anyway, the gym’s on the next floor down—I’ll show you around tomorrow—along with a rec room, entertainment center, library and the like. The labs are below that. But there are a couple amenities on this floor: a soundproof meditation chamber, a garden that probably isn’t outdoors but sure feels like it, and a public bath house. Pool, hot tub, both types of sauna, and an actual public bath, in case you feel up to socializing while you soak.”

A dagger-sharp smile flashes across Tony’s face. “I don’t soak. Public or otherwise.”

“Right. Sorry. Been a while.” Steve rubs his head sheepishly. “Anyway, maybe you could enjoy the sauna? if the arc reactor can take the heat. One of them’s a dry sauna, so.”

Humming noncommittally, Tony shoots a glance at his one-time friend. “Public bath, though? The guy _really_ took a liking to Japanese culture.”

“Actually, it’s normal in Asgard—group bathing. They don’t have a nudity taboo, not even between genders. As Loki explained it, they’ve got the bodies of gods; why be ashamed of anyone seeing them?”

Recalling his many encounters with Loki’s unchanging outfit, Tony chuckles darkly. “And yet he wears so many layers that I can’t even begin to imagine him in shorts and a t-shirt.”

“He wears _armor_, Tony.”

“And?”

“When you’re going into combat, you cover every inch of skin you can, until you have to balance around mobility issues, or body temperature, or how much sound you make when you move. Or being able to sense your surroundings. It’s not like—”

“Right, right, no chainmail bikinis.” Tony doesn’t need a lecture on armor; his combat suit is so much armor it’s practically its own ecosystem.

His _former_ combat suit. A suit he might never wear again. But then, when he invented the first one, he didn’t even have a lab. Not like Loki’s going to provide anything really useful as far as lab equipment or supplies, but Tony’s great at improvising.

“Nudity means vulnerability,” Steve says with a shrug. “Even here, he doesn’t allow himself to let his guard down, not really. Not even for movie night.”

Turning, Tony stares incredulously at his friend, mouth agape. “‘Movie night’?”

Steve’s awkward chuckle has layers of fondness to it. “I’ve been, uh, introducing him to the movies I grew up with. And we’re both catching up on seventy years of pop culture.”

“You’re sharing popcorn with the guy taking over the world.”

Dropping his gaze, Steve sighs. “Look, I’m not on Loki’s side, okay? If we find a way to break free, I’ll break free; if we find a way to fight back, I’ll fight back, and if I have to kill Loki then I will kill him. That’s war. But from in here, there’s not a lot we can do.”

“So you’re just settling in and enjoying yourself, is that it?” He almost feels bad for saying it, because he still doesn’t know if the scepter’s in play, how much Steve might be under Loki’s thumb. But it’s grating at him, the thought of playing nice with their captor. “Playing nice,” he adds, “while people out there are _dying_.”

“No!” Steve protests. “I—look, Fury and Strange are constantly testing the perimeter, trying to find the weak spots. Clint’s been using the lab to design better arrows and some restraints that Loki can’t get out of. Bruce has been trying to come up with some compounds that might knock him out, and a way to test them without putting him on the alert.”

“Well, at least _someone_ hasn’t forgotten that we’re captives,” Tony snipes.

“_Nobody’s forgotten that!_ ” Clenching his fists, Steve turns away, and takes a deep breath, letting out the tension. “Well, maybe Peter,” he shoots over his shoulder, “but he’s young. The rest of us, we know what’s going on, we know the stakes. We’re _trying_.”

“_Movie nights_,” Tony stresses. “Introducing him to the pop culture he’s actively destroying. What is that, just a way to distract him? Are you giving him foot rubs?”

Turning back, Steve holds Tony’s gaze. “You may not believe it, but distracting him isn’t a bad tactic. If he’s sharing some laughs with us here, then he’s not focusing on the war effort. That’s why the movie nights, the sparring sessions. Shared meals. Nat and I, and Pepper, we’re doing the only thing we _can_ do, which is to approach him on a personal level. Spend time with him, get to know him as a person.”

“Which accomplishes _what_, exactly?”

“It gets him to see _us_ as people. Not livestock, not pets, not lesser beings. _Equals_, even if we’re comparatively short-lived and powerless. And he does seem to honestly care about our welfare. Haven’t you noticed that his attacks are surprisingly light on casualties? I’ve seen him drive himself to exhaustion just trying to save _one life_.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure that’s of great comfort to his victims.”

“We can’t do anything to change what’s already happened. But I honestly hope that we can get him to back down. Eventually.”

“You haven’t convinced him in six years. What makes you think that’s gonna change?”

“You haven’t seen how much he _has_ changed,” Steve counters. “How many concessions he’s made. How often he admits that I’m right about something, and then follows that up with action or a change in policy. He’s not a terrible person, Tony. He’s not anything like I expected him to be. Even if I weren’t indebted to him for saving Bucky, I—”

“Indebted?” Tony asks sharply. “I thought you weren’t on Loki’s side.”

Steve presses his lips together, and then takes a deep breath. “It’s… complicated. There’s a lot to tell you; it’ll take time. But that line about not using mind control to force people to work for him? Bucky’s the reason that’s in there. The reason he stopped controlling Clint and Fury, and decided it was wrong to use magic to turn someone against their friends, against their _home_. Loki _has_ changed his mind about things, even when it makes things harder for him. That’s why I honestly hope we can get somewhere, just helping him to see things from a different perspective.”

Treating Loki as a friend in an attempt to reform him. Maybe it’s not as crazy as it sounds; Tony’s never had the chance to interact with Loki in any circumstances other than combat. Until today.

Doesn’t mean he’s convinced. But so long as other people are working on bringing down Loki in the usual way, he’ll concede that Cap might be onto something.

“Anyway,” Steve says, “dinner’s ready, so we’re all just waiting on you. We won’t start without you, but it’s fine if you take a little time to freshen up. Want me to show you around your quarters, or is that something you’d like to explore on your own?”

“I think I can figure it out.”

“Oh, and Loki’s pretty insistent on getting something in your belly on the first day. He won’t drag you to the table, but if you decide to just stay in your room, he _will_ drop by to make sure you eat something.”

“I can’t just kick him out?”

“The eviction enchantments don’t apply to him. If you think you can outlast his patience, well, others have tried, and I’d like to remind you that he’s a nigh-immortal being, so you’d be wasting a far bigger chunk of your lifetime than you would of his. You can test out his ‘cheerfully annoying’ mode if you like, but—”

“Yeah, I get it, fine. Besides, my first chance to share a meal with Pepper again? I’ll be there.”

“Okay.”

Steve turns to go, then turns back.

“Tony… I wish you weren’t here. I wish you were still free, still fighting. But… I’m glad you’re safe. And I’ve missed you.”

For a moment, Tony wonders if Steve’s about to go for a hug, but then Steve nods sharply and turns on his heel again, and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to include their first dinner together, but that got moved to the next non-flashback chapter, because this one got quite long. On the up side, earlier update for y'all!
> 
> So the next chapter will be the flashback to Steve's capture, and the chapter after that will be dinner. Unless things get weird again. I'm looking forward to writing Steve's flashback, but it's going to involve juggling several things happening at once, and I'm not sure which point of view I'm going to be writing it from. Steve gets plenty of screen time later in this fic, so I might go with one of the other major characters in that scene; we'll see.
> 
> Oh, and I did some minor updates of the previous chapters, including the note that trying to escape will not be penalized (I had meant to work that into Steve's prisoner-rights speech, but forgot).

**Author's Note:**

> General overview of upcoming priorities:
> 
> December is usually the time I try to put together presents for my fans/readers. I still have leftover presents that I meant to get together _last_ year (sigh). I might work on those, or a more collective project. I might try some short Loki/MCU fics as presents this year, or hit other fandoms for one-shots. I might delve into some projects that aren't fics, like a fanvid or something. Not yet sure.
> 
> Speaking of other media, I've basically decided to put together the major POI cast in _The Sims 3_. I figure I can cover all the [Birthday Prompt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17256416) characters, plus one bonus character apiece, and it would take a while but wouldn't be too big a project, especially as I've already managed about half the non-bonus characters. (We'll see if anything comes of this impulse.)
> 
> So... there's the "I don't really know how this is going to go, but um here's a sort of heads-up" report. See you next time, on _Scatterbrained Zaniida Ineptly Attempts to Predict the Future!_

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [ARTWORK for "To the Victor, by Consent of the Spoils"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21684178) by [CrazyLikeThat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazyLikeThat/pseuds/CrazyLikeThat)


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